"Living in Italy, last I heard," Eddie said.

"The job hung you guys out to dry, man," Danton said. "I'm thinking it was over some trumped-up shit about a mob get-together in Howard Beach. Am I right about that?"

"We were at a barbecue at his brother Angelo's house," Eddie said. "They said we were consorting with known members of organized crime."

"Yeah, Paulie's own brother," Danton said. "How the fuck do you keep away from your own brother? But that's the rat squad for you."

Angelo Caruso, Paulie's older brother, was listed as a capo in the Gambino crime family. The NYPD had tried for years to prove that Paulie was aiding the crime family with inside information. On a warm Saturday afternoon in June, Eddie and Paulie had attended a graduation party for Angelo's daughter, Paulie's niece. A handful of made men were in attendance. The story was the vino flowed and time slipped away. Shortly afterward, the FBI turned over surveillance pictures of the party to the NYPD. Internal Affairs filed departmental charges, accusing them of "Conduct Unbecoming: Consorting with Known Members of Organized Crime." Eddie accepted their offer to resign. An offer made only because the city didn't want the embarrassment of having to fire its new Medal of Honor winner.

"The rat squad was gonna get that crazy bastard one way or the other," Danton said. "Every guy who worked in a Brooklyn squad in the seventies got Paulie the Priest stories."

Eddie said, "Listen, Howie, do you have to notify the sketch artist, or do I have to drive downtown, or what? I want to get going."

"They do it by computer now," Danton said. "In the borough, the Six-seven. I'll call, tell them you're on your way. But if we need you later, how do we get in touch?"

"Just call me," Eddie said, pointing to the detective's notebook. "You have my number."

"No protocol involved?" Danton said, glancing at Boland. "Anybody I should check with first? I don't want to step on any FBI toes here."

"You can talk directly to me," Eddie said. "I'm not FBI property."

"Whatever," Danton said with a smirk.

"Is that funny to you?" Eddie said.

"No, no, whatever you say."

"Eddie's daughter was kidnapped," Boland said. "We're looking at Russian involvement."

"I didn't know," Danton said, shrugging. "Whatever I can do, Eddie."

It surprised Eddie that Boland could pay attention to their conversation while exchanging blown kisses with the suicidal blonde hanging out the third-floor window. She kept mouthing invitations and contorting her spiked tongue. Purple eye shadow, black lipstick, pierced everything. It all screamed loco.

"She wants my body," Boland said.

"Yeah, to plunge an ice pick into," Danton said. "No doubt in my mind that crazy bitch has an ice pick under the bed."

"It's the crazy ones," Boland said, "who make life interesting."

Eddie almost gave Boland a piece of advice about crazy women. But he wouldn't listen anyway. And some advice is better left unsaid.

"All these Russians are crazy," Danton said. "This Lukin, for example. Supposed to be like the godfather, a beloved figure, but I don't see any tears. I used to work uniform in the Fifth. If John Gotti or Carlo Gambino had been whacked on Mulberry Street, the screaming and wailing would shatter crystal in Jersey."

Boland said, "The U.S. attorney we're working with says that trying to figure out the Russian mind is like trying to snatch mercury off a countertop."

"So help me out here," Danton said. "You guys were on Lukin. Point me in the right direction. Who the hell am I looking for?"

"It was our first day on him," Boland said. "We don't have shit yet."

"You gotta have something."

If Boland had been with an agent, Howie Danton would never have known they were tailing Lukin in the first place. The feds never liked to get involved in local crime. Boland reacted like a cop, but then he intentionally avoided mentioning the name of Yuri Borodenko. When Danton asked if Lukin's murder could be part of a Russian mob war, Boland did the old soft-shoe routine, everything but sprinkle sand on the platform. He knew the feds were funny about sharing case information with the locals, a hangover from the reign of J. Edgar.

"This guy Lukin's claim to fame is the gas-tax scam, right?" Danton said, going through his mental list of usual suspects, looking for a motive he could buy. "Brooklyn DA indicted a bunch of them. Italians involved, too, weren't they?"

"Three Russians, seven Italians," Boland said. "This could be payback La Cosa Nostra-style."

Not that the gas-tax scam wasn't a big deal; it was still the biggest tax scam in U.S. history. But it was ancient history. The Italians came into it late. When the Gambino crime family got wind of the Russian gold mine, they horned in for a penny a gallon. Then the bubble burst and the Russians offered up a Sicilian sacrifice. The Gambinos never knew how much money they'd gotten screwed out of until the indictments came down. Lukin, the architect, was never touched. You don't kill your moneymaker.

"I wouldn't look too hard at the Italians," Eddie said. "The gas-tax scam happened a long time ago."

"That much money, I don't know," Boland said. "I'd hold a grudge for a long time."

"This doesn't even look like a Mafia hit," Eddie said. "A professional Mafia hit man would have blown Lukin's brains out as he climbed the stairs, not waited until a crowd formed waiting for the train. Or dressed like a woman."

"He's got a point," Danton said.

"The Italians were humiliated by these guys," Boland said, turning to face Eddie. "Don't tell me one of them isn't capable of holding a grudge. Your old partner's brother did time on that case, didn't he?"

"Angelo Caruso," Eddie said. "But he's been out for years. Why now?"

Eddie glanced down at the street. The invasion of police cars and TV news trucks grew as the morning wore on. Reporters circled the scene, each one trying to flaunt his personal street smarts and outflank the competition. All maneuvered to get the front-page angle on a slow news day. An on-camera reporter from NY1 planted herself in front of the Brighton Beach subway sign. Several ambitious cameramen found their way to local roofs and were filming from above.

"Listen, Howie," Eddie said. "Call the borough now. I want to get working on the sketch while I still remember. Guy my age forgets things fast."

"Yeah," Danton said. "I gotta get this crime scene closed before that transit schmuck has a coronary."

Enough good-byes. Eddie left. The others had time to bullshit and flirt-their daughter wasn't missing. He ran down die stairs, wondering why he didn't feel any sense of loss for Lukin, the man who'd turned him around at the lowest point in his life. Perhaps he'd come to realize that he hadn't been shown a new road after all, just another highway to hell.

Eddie grabbed a taxi on Coney Island Avenue. "The Six-seven" was all he told the driver. The driver didn't ask for a street address. If a cabdriver knows nothing else, he knows where all the police precincts are located. Eddie'd pick up his Olds after he finished with the sketch artist.

In the back of the cab, he studied the list of Borodenko locations, trying to decide where to start. There had to be some connection between Kate's kidnapping and Lukin's murder. He had two very different pieces of a puzzle: a stolen BMW, and now a quick glimpse of a face. Dark skin, big nose. Probably not even enough for a decent sketch. Boxing was so much easier. In boxing, you knew exactly who to hit, and he could run no farther than the ropes. It all came down to pain, who could inflict and absorb the most. He'd been absorbing more than his share. He needed to hunt this person down. Corner him. Corner her. Either way, it would be over fast. It felt good to think this.