But if I were a dirty cop, I would be a little paranoid.

Did I do something stupid, following him into the Roundhouse? Did he see me looking through the window?

Well, to hell with it. It's done.

Matt turned the headlights on as he left the parking lot, and headed for Rittenhouse Square.

"Who was that in the unmarked car?" Officer Tom Coogan inquired of Officer Timothy Calhoun as soon as they were inside the well-worn Buick Special.

"I just made him," Calhoun said. "Remember the guy that popped the sicko, the serial rapist? Blew his brains out?"

"John Wayne, something like that?"

"Payne. His name is Payne."

"That was him?"

"That was him, I'm sure. That fucking new unmarked car makes me sure. He's one of them hotshots in Special Operations. Every one of them fuckers gets a new car, did you know that?"

"I heard it," Coogan said. "I ran into Charley Mc-Fadden-remember him?-at the FOP."

"I remember him, sure. He made detective, didn't he?"

"Him and the spic. Martinez. Mutt and Jeff both made detective, and both of them are in Special Operations, and both run around in brand-new unmarked cars."

"There's a moral in there, Coogan. Shoot a bad guy, and get yourself promoted."

"Mutt and Jeff didn't shoot a bad guy, they tossed him under an elevated train," Coogan replied.

Calhoun laughed.

"What the fuck do they do out there in Special Operations? " he asked.

"Who the fuck knows? They're Carlucci's fair-haired boys. They caught that loony tune who wanted to blow up the vice president. Shit like that."

"How do you get in Special Operations?"

"Shoot a bad guy, I told you. Get your picture on TV."

"If we shoot one of our bad guys, we'd wind up on charges for violating the fucker's civil rights," Calhoun said.

"Speaking of our bad guys, what did we get?"

"Nothing. Zip," Calhoun said.

"Nothing?"

"The two johns had eighty-five bucks between them," Calhoun explained. "The dinges had a half-dozen bags and three hundred bucks and change. I figured it wasn't worth the risk to take any of it."

"Three hundred bucks is three hundred bucks. A little bit here, a little bit there…" Coogan made a little joke.

It went over Calhoun's head.

"Somebody might have thought it strange that the dinges had only a hundred or so," he replied seriously. "And we don't take it all, remember? Don't be so fucking greedy, Coogan."

"Up yours, Calhoun!"

They drove to the Narcotics Unit's office at 22nd Street and Hunting Park Avenue, decided finishing the paperwork could wait until they had a beer, and walked across the street to the Allgood Bar.

It was late, and not shift-change time, and there was hardly anybody in the place. Except, sitting at a table in the rear, a stocky, swarthy man in his late thirties, who raised his bottle of Ortlieb's beer in greeting when he saw them.

Coogan and Calhoun stopped at the bar only long enough to get beers of their own and then walked to his table carrying them.

"What did you do to your face, Calhoun?" Assistant District Attorney Anton C. Phebus asked.

Calhoun touched his face gingerly. Under three days' growth of beard on his right cheek was an angry red bruise.

"There was this guy, six feet six, one of them Zulus," Calhoun said. "Skinny as a rail. I don't think he weighed 130 pounds," Officer Calhoun explained. "I started to put cuffs on him, got one on him, and then he decided he didn't want to be arrested…"

He mimed the action, spilling a little beer in the process, of someone suddenly spreading his arms to avoid being handcuffed.

"… and the loose cuff got me," he finished.

"And what did you do to him?" Phebus asked, chuckling.

"He's gonna sing soprano for a while. You wouldn't believe how strong that skinny fucker was!"

"Maybe he was on something," Phebus suggested.

"Maybe," Calhoun said, considering this. "But I don't think so. He was just strong, is all. And he took me by surprise."

"Aside from that," Phebus chuckled, "how was the arrest?"

"Zip," Coogan offered.

"Zip?" Phebus asked, surprised, and then looked at Calhoun. "Zip, like in zero?"

"You told me to think, I thought," Calhoun said. "What they had wasn't worth the risk."

"Good boy," Phebus said. "There's always another day."

"So you keep saying," Calhoun said.

Phebus looked as if he intended to reply, but changed his mind.

"Two things," he said. "They're going to let me prosecute Leslie, which means I can get-"

"Who's Leslie?" Coogan interrupted.

"The junkie shit who popped Kellog," Calhoun furnished, contemptuously.

"Sorry," Coogan said, flushing, aware he had just said something stupid.

"Which means," Phebus went on, "that I can finally get to listen to what's on Kellog's fucking tapes."

"There's probably nothing on them," Calhoun said. "Kellog wasn't stupid."

"He was covering his ass," Phebus said. "Which means he was scared. People who are scared do stupid things."

"Where are the tapes now?" Coogan asked.

"We have them," Phebus said. "But I just couldn't go to the evidence room and ask for them. Before. Now that I'm prosecuting Leslie, I'll be expected to look at them, listen to them."

Coogan nodded, then said, "You said 'two things.' "

Phebus did not reply directly. He looked at Calhoun and asked, "Calhoun, you planning to go to Harrisburg anytime soon?"

"Should I?"

"Get the wife and kid out of the city, why don't you? Get them a little fresh air out in the country. See your wife's family."

"Right."

"What's going to happen to Leslie?" Coogan asked.

"Probably, I can get him convicted of first-degree murder. He's going away for a while."

"Christ, we ought to give him a medal. He done us a favor," Coogan said.

"Like what?" Phebus asked sarcastically. "Calling all the attention he did to the Five Squad? Letting people listen to those tapes?"

"Kellog won't be making any more tapes," Coogan said. "Will he?"

"Who else is going to listen to those tapes?" Calhoun asked.

"Nobody now, I don't think. Special Operations made copies of them when they were looking for Kellog's shooter."

"You don't think they got anything off them, do you?" Calhoun asked.

"Good question. I don't know."

"We just saw one of those hotshots," Calhoun said. "At the Roundhouse. The one that shot the serial rapist."

"Payne?"

"Yeah."

"What was he doing?"

"Beats the shit out of me. He was in the Roundhouse parking lot. I seen him twice, once when I went into Central Lockup and when I come out."

"He's Inspector Wohl's errand boy," Phebus said. "There's no telling what he could have been doing."

"Maybe he's listening to Kellog's tapes. Maybe he's already listened to Kellog's tapes. Maybe that son of a bitch Kellog said my name on those tapes. Maybe he was watching me," Calhoun said.

"Jesus Christ, just when I think you're getting some smarts," Phebus said, "you start bouncing off the walls. If Special Operations was taking a close look at Five Squad, the word would be out."

"And what if we do hear some word like that?"

"Then we shut down. As simple as that. If we don't do something stupid here, or something stupid in Harrisburg, there's nothing for Special Operations, Internal Affairs, this new thing-what the fuck do they call it? 'Ethical Affairs'-or anybody else to find."

Calhoun didn't reply.

"If Prasko hadn't made that stupid telephone call to Kellog's widow, Calhoun," Phebus went on, "Special Operations wouldn't have been in on this at all. That beat cop would have caught Leslie the way he did, and that would have been the end of it. Nobody would have given a shit what might be on those tapes. Frankly, you and Prasko worry me more than Kellog ever did."