Toby’s phone rang again. I ignored it. Flood was good at waiting-she just went into some kind of breathing exercise and made the time go away. Her eyes were focused, but she was meditating-in a resting phase, like a battery storing up energy.

Toby didn’t get back until it was almost nine-thirty, but when he walked in the door carrying a thick manila folder, I knew we’d won.

“I can’t show you what’s in here, but you’re right about your man. I’ll tell you some things. Don’t ask me any questions-just listen and then leave, okay?”

I nodded yes and Flood became as rigid as a setter on point.

“Martin Howard Wilson, d.o.b. August 10, 1944. Arrested and indicted as you already know. Agreed to provide specific evidence on the kiddie-porn operations of several individuals, including Elijah Slocum, Manny Grossman, and one Jonas Goldor, the last of which purportedly included the use of children in active prostitution and the sale of children across state lines. This Goldor, I’ve heard, is a very bad guy. He almost makes a religion out of pain, seems to believe in it somehow. I’m told he can be so persuasive that he actually talks people into trying it of their own free will, but that’s just hearsay. Lots of rumors that he’s killed some of his playmates, and Wilson claimed he even knew where the private graveyard was.

“There’s an old address for Wilson, but it’s strictly n.g. now. We checked. We’re looking for him too. We didn’t actually give him immunity. We promised him immunity when and if he made a case against Goldor and actually testified before the grand jury and at trial if necessary. His lawyer said he couldn’t be in protective custody and still make the case for us, and we bought it. Wilson seemed to really get into the whole undercover thing, like he always wanted to be a cop or something. He was going to set up a preliminary buy-a truckload of kiddie porn coming in from California. We were going to use those guys as rollovers too, make as strong a case as we could against Goldor. The buy never went down and Wilson disappeared. But he’s still out there. He calls in every once in a while and claims he’s working on the case for us.

“There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Murder Two. Sodomy First Degree. Kidnapping. The works. The A.D.A. running the case doesn’t know himself if Wilson’s really trying to make a case for us, but when Wilson gets popped he’s going down for the homicide. Period. The only other thing I can tell you is that Goldor’s listed in the Scarsdale phone book, he’s got no mob enemies and a lot, of powerful friends. Big political contributor, owns a lot of good real estate, even pays his taxes on time, I’m told. But there’s one funny thing… even though we don’t have real good intelligence operations in the Hispanic community we do know that Una Gente Libre-you know, that Puerto Rican terrorist group-has the word on the street that they’re going to whack this guy. Goldor, not Wilson. We don’t know why, or anything about them. And Goldor, we know for a fact, doesn’t believe it for a second.

“Now that’s it. I’ve told you everything I can, and I’ve told you with the understanding that you’re looking for this individual and if you locate him you will promptly report his whereabouts to our office. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said, and blasted Flood with my eyes so she’d keep the disappointment that was trembling around her mouth from erupting into words. Toby got up to shake hands. The interview was over. I palmed the piece of paper he slipped me without saying a word, and Flood just nodded curtly at him, snatched her coat off the rack, and we left.

I could feel Flood steaming beside me as we walked to the car. She yanked off her coat, flung it into the back seat, folded her arms, and stared through the windshield. We drove to her place in stony silence. I parked the car, got out with her, and reached for her hand as we walked down the block to her loft. She pulled it away, said nothing. The door to her studio was slightly stuck-probably the humidity-and Flood hit it a shot with the palm of her hand that practically knocked it off its hinges. She stalked through to her own place and was ripping off the jersey top even before I got to sit down. Then she pulled off the rest of her clothes, put on a rose silk robe, and sat down directly across from me.

“Nothing. Nothing. We don’t know a goddamned thing we didn’t know before-”

“Flood, shut up. We know all we need to know now.”

“You’re a fool, Burke. And I’m a bigger fool for listening to you. He told us nothing, don’t you understand?”

“We know the name of a group interested in Goldor, right? Maybe Goldor knows where to find our man.”

“And maybe he doesn’t. And maybe he won’t tell us. And what do you know about Puerto Rican terrorist groups anyway? It’s nothing.”

Flood looked like she couldn’t decide whether to cry or kill. For as long as I knew this woman I kept overestimating her or underestimating her-maybe I’d never know her long enough to get it right.

I took the piece of paper Toby had slipped me out of my coat pocket, smoothed it out carefully, and turned it around so it was facing her. It took a second for Flood’s eyes to focus on the black-and-white standard mug shot, one full-face view and one in profile. It showed a man just over six feet tall, with a face that was broad at the top and narrowed down to a pointed chin. He had dark hair, dark, bulging eyes, a narrow nose with a too-large tip. The head was slightly jug-eared, and there were old acne scars on both cheeks. His hair was on the long side, but cut close in front so his entire forehead was visible. On the back of the Xeroxed mug shot there was a typed notation: “4-inch scar outside left thigh. Tattoos: right bicep/ Death Before Dishonor with Eagle, left outside forearm/ initials A.B. in a blue circle-wears contact lenses.”

Flood stared at the mug shot like she was going to climb inside the paper. I broke her concentration when I turned the paper over. She read it slowly and carefully, moving her lips, memorizing.

“Him?”

“It’s him, Flood.”

And her face became a sunburst and her eyes sparkled and I’ll never see a more radiant smile-it turned the whole room warm. Flood held the mug shot and chuckled to herself, smiling that smile. She threw off the robe, turned around, and bent over, looking back over her shoulder at me.

“You want to try that trick of yours again?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“It won’t be the same. Promise.”

“How come?” I was suspicious.

“Ancient Japanese technique.”

So I gave her a half-hearted smack and she was right. It was like patting soft, bouncy female flesh-the best there is.

“See?”

“You know any other Japanese techniques?”

Flood looked back over her shoulder with that same wonderful smile and said, “Oh yes.” It turned out she was right.