I let the scattergun drift in a soft are, covering them all, letting them feel the calm.

"There's no money here today," the fat guy said, just a slight tremor in his voice. It wasn't his first stickup.

"Shut up," I told him, not raising my voice.

'"What is this?" the heavyset one asked.

"I ask the questions, you answer them," I told him.

"And then?"

"And then I kill one of you."

"Why?" the young guy squeaked.

"That little girl, the one they found strangled in the basement a couple of months ago. They found her when this joint opened up on a Monday morning. You three meet here every Sunday. To cook the books, play games with the IRS, whatever. It doesn't matter. One of you killed her."

"The cops already checked that out," the fat man said.

"I'm not the cops."

"Look, pal—" the guy to my right said.

"I'm not your pal. Here's the deal. One of you killed her, period—I got no time to argue about it. I don't find out who did it, now, in this room, I blow you all away. Then I'm sure."

"That's not fair," the young guy whined.

"It'll be fair," I said. "If I wanted to kill you all, I wouldn't be wearing this mask. Now, who likes little girls?" I asked all three of them.

No answer.

"Last chance," I said, not moving.

The fat guy's eyes shifted to his left. Just a flicker. I pinned the guy with the gold chains. "You keep magazines in a desk drawers' I asked him.

His face went white. "It's not what you think. I'm straight—you ask anyone."

I watched his face shake, waiting.

"It's not me! Ask Markie–ask him about where he was a couple a years ago!"

"That wasn't for anything violent." the young guy yelled, sweat popping out on his face. "I just liked to look."

"In windows" I asked him.

"I was—sick. But I'm okay now. I see a therapist and everything. Right, Uncle Manna Tell him!"

Manny nodded. "Markie wouldn't hurt anyone." Veins of contempt in his fat voice.

"How about you?"

"Me! What do I want with little girls? I take a nice massage right here in the office twice a week, you know what I mean?"

"You tell the cops about that?"

"You think it's a big deal to them? They're all on the pad–they know how it goes."

I turned to the young guy. "You like to look, Markie. Did she scream when you wanted to look too close?"

"It wasn't me! I didn't see her until—"

"It's okay, Markie. Until when"

"Louie did it!" he shouted, pointing at the guy with the gold chains. "He showed me. He made me help him take her down to the basement–"

"You lying little punk!" Louie muttered, nodding at Manny. "He always wanted me outa here. Never wanted a partner." Then he turned to face me. "Yeah, okay. I took her downstairs. But after this freak finished with her. It wasn't me. The cops know. Manny pays them regular."

"He said she came here looking for a job," Markie said, indicating Louie. "I guess she needed some money and––"

The fat man smiled, watching my eyes under the mask. "Look, you're a professional, right? Somebody paid you to do a job. Okay, I understand. Business is business. Markie's a relative. A nephew, you know what that means? The kid's a peeper, but he never killed anyone. Louie's the one you want. You got paid for a body, do what you have to do. Everybody's happy."

"Markie don't look like a relative of yours," I told the fat man.

"You look real close, you can always see the family resemblance," he said, the smile leaving his face, knowing how it was going to end.

I tightened my finger on the trigger. Reached up and pulled the mask off my face.

Hostage

I've got a gun! Aimed right at her head. See? Take a look for yourselves. You make one move to come in here, I'll blow her away!"

The man was on the top story of a three–family frame building in a middle–class section of Brooklyn. Standing at the front window, looking down at us. He was visible from the waist up, the silver revolver clear in his hand. We could only see the old lady's head and chest, the small body framed by the handles of the wheelchair. I felt a crowd surging behind us, held back by the uniformed cops. A TV camera crew was setting up to my left.

"I guess this one's yours, Walker."

I nodded agreement at the big detective. I'd seen him around before, at scenes like this one. Never could remember his name.

"How long's he been like that?" I asked.

"We got a call about six this morning, just around daybreak. Prowler. Radio car took it, found the kid in an alley, peeking in windows. They chased him, he made it to the back door of that house there. They start up the stairs after him, that's when he flashed the piece. He's been up there for hours."

"That's his house?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"He was just running in panic, he wouldn't have gone all the way to the top floor. I'll bet the gun was in the house all the time, probably didn't have it with him when he was outside."

"Yeah. He's even got a permit for it, all registered, nice and legal."

"What else you got?"

"His name's Mark Weston. Age twenty–three. Got two priors, indecent exposure and attempted B&E. Got probation both times. Sees a psychiatrist. Lives off his mother's Social Security check–that's her up there in the wheelchair."

"You think he'd blast his mother?"

The detective shrugged. "You're the expert," he said, just the trace of contempt in his voice.

I'd been a cop a long time. Ever since I came home from the killing floor in Southeast Asia. It seemed like the natural thing to do. My first assignment was vice, but I got kicked back into uniform when some dirtbag pimp complained I'd roughed him up during a bust. Then I worked narcotics. The first week on the job I killed a dealer in a gunfight. He was shot in the back. The Review Team cleared me–he'd shot first and I nailed him going for the window.

I got a commendation, but they put me back on the beat. That was okay for a while. The people in the community knew me, we got along. I caught two guys coming out of a bodega, stocking masks over their heads, one had a shotgun. I cut them both down. Turned out one was thirteen years old. How was I supposed to know?

They sent me to the department shrink. Nice guy. Gave me a lot of tests, asked a lot of questions. Never said much.

The shrink's office was in Manhattan. The locks were a joke. I went back there one night and pulled my file. It made interesting reading. Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder, fundamental lack of empathy, blunted affect, addicted risk–taker.

I'd been a sniper in Nam, so they tried me on the SWAT Team. When I did what they hired me to do, they pulled me off the job. Took away my gun.

Then they gave me a choice. I could take early retirement, go out on disability. Emotionally unsuited to law enforcement, that kind of thing. Or I could learn hostage negotiation work. Go to this special school they have. The boss said I'd be real good at it–I always stayed calm, and I could talk pretty sweet when I wanted to.

But I couldn't carry a gun. My job was to talk. The boss said if I proved myself, I could go back on a regular job someday.

Okay.