No mistakes, Frank.

Ill call you when hes dead. *����*����* Fiske sat in the car and cranked up the air-conditioning, which, in his fourteen-year-old Ford, merely caused the slow movement of muggy air from left to right. Sweat trickling down his face and staining his shirt collar, Fiske finally eased down the window as he stared at the building. Average-looking on the outside, it was not on the inside. There, the people spent all of their time searching for those who killed other people. And Fiske was trying to decide whether to join them in their pursuit or drive back home. He had identified his brothers remains, his official duty as next of kin completed. He could go home, tell his father, make the funeral arrangements, see to his brothers final affairs, bury him and then get on with his life. Thats what everyone else did. Instead, Fiske pulled himself out of the car and into the muggy air, and entered the building at 300 Indiana Avenue, home to the D.C. Police Homicide Division. After passing through security and being directed by a uniformed police officer, he stopped at a desk. He had tried his father once again from the morgue, but still no answer. Frustrated, he was now also worried that his father had somehow found out and was on his way up here. He looked down at the card the attendant at the morgue had given him. Detective Buford Chandler, please, he said, looking down at the young woman behind the desk.

And you are? The sharp angle of her neck, and her superior tone, immediately made Fiske want to stuff her in one of her own desk drawers.

John Fiske. Detective Chandler is investigating my brothers . . . my brothers murder. His name was Michael Fiske. She stared at him, no recognition on her features. He was a clerk at the Supreme Court, he added. She glanced at some papers on her desk. And somebody killed him?

This is the Homicide Division, isnt it? She settled her gaze back on him, her look of annoyance pronounced. He continued: Yes, somebody killed him he glanced down at the nameplate on her desk Ms. Baxter.

Well, what exactly can I do for you?

Id like to see Detective Chandler.

Is he expecting you?

Fiske leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. Not exactly, but

Then Im afraid hes not in, she said, cutting him off.

I think if you put a call into Fiske stopped and watched as she turned away from him and started typing on her computer. Look, I really need to see Detective Chandler.

She typed as she spoke. Let me educate you on the situation here, okay? We have lots of cases and not too many detectives. We dont have time for every drop-in off the street. We have to have priorities. Im sure you can understand that. Her voice drifted off as she looked at the computer screen. Fiske leaned forward until his face was only a couple of inches from the woman. When she looked around, they were eye to eye. Let me make you understand something. I came up from Richmond to identify the remains of my brother atDetective Chandlersrequest. I did that. My brother is dead. And right about now the medical examiner is cutting a Y incision in his chest so that he can lift out his insides, organ by organ. Then hes going to take a saw and cut an intermastoid incision like a wedge of pie through his skull, right about here. Fiske made an imaginary cut along Ms. Baxters head with his finger, overcoming a very strong impulse to snatch up a handful of the womans permed blond hair. Thats so he can lift out his brain and trace the path of the bullet that killed him and perhaps get some shell fragments. Now, I thought Id come and have a chat with Detective Chandler and see if he and I can come up with some leads on who might have killed him.

She said coldly, Well, thats not your job, is it? We have enough problems without family members getting involved in police investigations. Im sure Detective Chandler will be in touch if he needs you. She again turned away from him. Fiske gripped the edge of her desk and took a deep breath, trying his best not to lose it. Look, I can understand the caseload problem you must have here, and the fact that you dont know me from Adam

Im really busy right now, sir. So if you have a problem, I suggest you put it in writing.

All I want to do is talk to the man!

Am I going to have to call a guard, or what?

Fiske slammed his hand down on the desk. My brother is dead! And I would really appreciate if you would take that piss-poor attitude youre wearing and replace it with just an ounce of compassion. And if you cant force yourself to mean it, lady, then just pretend.

Im Buford Chandler.

Both Fiske and Baxter turned. Chandler was black, in his early fifties, with curly white hair, a matching mustache and a tall, thickened frame that managed to retain a certain athleticism from his youth. He wore an empty shoulder holster, a smudge of pistol oil on his shirt where the grip had lain against it. He looked Fiske up and down from behind a pair of trifocals.

Im John Fiske.

I heard. In fact Ive been standing over here listening to the whole thing.

Then you know what he said to me, Detective Chandler? Baxter said.

Every word.

And dont you have something to say?

Yes, I do.

Baxter looked over at Fiske with a look of satisfaction on her face. Well?

I think this young man gave you some pretty good advice. Chandler hooked a finger at Fiske. Lets talk.

Chandler and Fiske made their way through busy hallways to a small, cluttered office. Have a seat. Chandler pointed to the only chair in the room other than the one behind his desk. There were files stacked on the chair. Just put those on the floor. Chandler held up a warning finger. Be careful you dont taint any evidence. These days if I belch while Im looking at tissue samples, all Im going to hear is, Inadmissible! Free my mass-murdering sonofabitch of a client.�

Fiske very carefully moved the files while Chandler settled behind his desk.

Now, I dont want you feeling sorry for what you said to Judy Baxter.

I wasnt planning on it.

Chandler suppressed a smile. Okay, first things first. Im sorry about your brother.

Thank you, Fiske said in a subdued manner.

Probably the first time you heard that since arriving up here, isnt it?

Actually, it is.

So you were in law enforcement? Chandler casually remarked, then smiled at Fiskes surprise. The average citizen doesnt usually know about Y incisions and intermastoid cuts. With the way you got in Ms. Baxters face, the manner in which you carry yourself, and your build, Id say you were a patrolman.

Past tense?

If you were still on the force the folks in Richmond wouldve told me when we contacted them. And besides, I know very few police officers who wear suits off duty.

Right on all counts. Im glad you were assigned to this case, Detective Chandler.

You and forty-two other active cases. Fiske shook his head, and Chandler continued: Budgetary cuts and all. I dont even have a partner anymore.

So in other words, dont expect any miracles?

I will do my best to catch whoever killed your brother. But I can give no guarantees.

Then how about a little unofficial help?

How do you mean?

I worked a lot of homicides with the detectives down in Richmond. Learned a lot, remember a lot. Maybe I can be your new partner.

Officially, thats absolutely impossible.

Officially, I absolutely understand.

What do you do now?

Im a criminal defense attorney, said Fiske. Chandler rolled his eyes. And I take pride in my work too, Detective Chandler.

Chandler nodded over Fiskes shoulder toward the door. Shut that, will you? He remained silent until Fiske did so and returned to his seat.

Now, despite my better judgment, I will take your offer of assistance under advisement.

Fiske shook his head. Im here now. Considering that after forty-eight hours the success rate on homicides heads to China, thats not going to cut it. Fiske thought this might set the man off, but Chandler remained calm.