“We’ll do our best, Gruber,” said Sanders. “But you should bloody well have thought of that before you got involved in this.”

“I don’t know that much,” he whined. His thin mustache was soaked with sweat. “I don’t know who the big fish is. I only dealt with Jimmy.”

“Jimmy who?”

“Jimmy Fielding. I don’t know where he lives. He has an office on Dundas Street West, above a crummy Chinese restaurant, The Golden Apple. Only a couple of blocks from here.”

“What does Mr. Fielding do in that office?” asked Sanders.

“He’s an agent—for all sorts of things. He does some importing, and runs a translation service and that sort of thing, and acts on behalf of immigrants who have problems.”

“You mean he smuggles in illegals? And then slides them into the States for a bit extra.”

Rick squirmed a bit. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And where did you fit into his little business?”

“Well—I didn’t have to do much. Sometimes I just turned up when he was talking to someone and stood there. He just liked to have someone in uniform there; it made him feel safer, he said. Jesus, it’s just like the supermarket people hiring an off-duty to stand in the goddamn parking lot. It wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“Sure,” said Sanders. “Only in the office was some poor bugger who didn’t understand English and was terrified of people in uniform, and Fielding used you to extort what he wanted from him, didn’t he?” Gruber shrugged. “And what else did you do, besides intimidating illegals?”

“Well—sometimes I just carried packages around. I don’t know what was in them, but they were packages he didn’t want anyone to steal. So he figured no one would knock off a cop, you know.”

“Shit!” said Sanders. “Packages. Come on, Gruber, you’re not that stupid. Just what in hell was he importing? Heroin? Where did you pick it up from? The airport?” Gruber nodded. “Carried in by innocent-looking tourist types, I suppose.” Gruber nodded again. “And you were in uniform? And driving a patrol car?” Gruber nodded for the third time. “Christ. That’s all we need.”

“I don’t think it was heroin, though,” said Gruber.

“Oh, good,” said Sanders. “What was it?”

“Coke.”

“That’s nice. It’s much classier, isn’t it? Goes with the apartment and the silk shirts.” He stuck his head out the door. “Hey you. Get someone to come in and take Mr. Gruber’s statement. We’re off to find a friend of his.” Then he turned back. “By the way, Gruber, why did you snatch the Griffiths girl?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Jimmy said the boss wanted her out of the way, and it had to be done in just that way. You’ll have to ask Jimmy.”

“I will,” said Sanders. “I will.”

Mr. Jimmy Fielding was sitting tranquilly in his large, grubby office, that, with bathroom and kitchen attached, formed the entire second floor of the building that housed The Golden Apple. Smells of old grease and newly burned food wandered up through various cracks and crannies in the floor and reminded him that he had not as yet had his dinner. But he was waiting for a client. Because of the nature of his business dealings, which were many—those that Gruber had known about were only a small sampling of the rich variety of his services—he often worked evening hours. To accommodate honest working folk. Tonight he was pleased with life. Gruber had screwed up, but Gruber had had the sense to disappear. If he had done what he was told, he should be in the Cayman Islands by now, happily living on what had been banked there for him. And when that ran out, he could be useful at the Caribbean end of things. But he was going to have to find another cop—someone as greedy as Gruber, but a touch cleverer.

At the sound of a step on the stair, he looked at his watch. Right on time. Good. That meant he was anxious and would be easier to deal with. “Come in,” he called jovially as soon as he saw a hand raised to the milky glass of the door. His feet abruptly left his desk and the welcoming grin his face when he saw his two visitors.

“Well, now gentlemen, may I help you? I have a client arriving very soon, so—”

“Well, well,” said Dubinsky, “if it isn’t little Jimmy Feldman. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Good evening, Sergeant. It is Sergeant now, isn’t it? But what brings you here? Surely it’s not a crime for someone to change his name and embark upon a life of hard work and legitimate endeavor, is it?” He smiled.

“Certainly not,” said Sanders. “but we’re here to talk about a kidnapping. As well as various other little enterprises.”

“Kidnapping?” said Jimmy, in tones of astonishment.

“Yes, Mr. Fielding. The kidnapping of Miss Amanda Griffiths. We’ve got you, you know. She identified Gruber, and Gruber fingered you. You can’t trust anybody these days.”

“Gruber?”

“Yeah.” Dubinsky leaned casually against the door. “Constable, or should I say, ex-Constable Rick Gruber, your partner in this alleged kidnapping.”

“Oh. That Gruber. Yes, indeed.” Fielding paused for a while, the pleasant smile sitting poised on his face. “An over-anxious and not very clever young man, I’m afraid. I fear he jumps to conclusions and misunderstands the simplest requests.”

“He does? In what way did he misunderstand you, Mr. Fielding?”

“Ah well. It was a simple custody case—you know, one of these instances in which children become the pawns of warring parents.”

“You’re about to make me sick,” said Sanders. “Get to the point.”

“Well, a very unhappy man came to see me a little while ago, with a very sad story. His beloved daughter had been snatched by his wife—a dreadful woman, apparently, with no morals to speak of—and had been placed in an expensive girls’ school where she was miserable. The place is a veritable prison. He hadn’t been allowed to see her or even to speak to her. He asked me if I could help him—out of pure charity, of course—regain custody of this poor girl.” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “How could I refuse? And it seemed a simple thing to do, merely picking up a girl after school and delivering her to her father.”

“In a police car? Taken from a police garage without authorization?”

“No!” said Jimmy, quivering with amazement. “He didn’t do that, did he? I told you, he was a man of more goodwill than brains. You see, my car wasn’t functioning well that day, and Constable Gruber offered to help me out by driving her to her father. I don’t know what happened. The girl must have misunderstood what was going on. We thought her father had had a chance to explain the plan to her. Or, you don’t suppose that Constable Gruber forgot himself and tried to take advantage of her, do you? He is a very young man, you know. Anyway, he called me in the evening to say that when he tried to take her to her father’s car, she panicked and ran away, and he was dreadfully afraid that she had fallen and hurt herself. I think he must have spent the rest of the night torn with remorse and trying to find her, poor chap.”

“You mean, you weren’t there?” said Sanders. “Not at all?”

“Oh, I was there when we picked the girl up, but I had other things to do, and Constable Gruber dropped me off on his way to the rendezvous. I’m afraid I don’t know what happened after that. Except what I’ve told you.” He smiled gently at the two of them.

“And who was this poor deprived father, may I ask? Do you think we could discuss the matter with him? After all, if he had a custody order, we might be able to help him have it enforced.”

“Well, the document he showed me was from the state of Maine. He said it was a custody order. But I don’t believe he gave his last name—it must, of course, be Griffiths, mustn’t it, if that’s the girl’s name. His name is Pete, and I think he’s staying at the Park Plaza Hotel—close to his daughter’s school, to catch a glimpse of her if he can. Is the girl back at school, might I ask?”