“It’s Cheech, I think,” Stone said. “He and the other guy worked for Dattila or his bookie. They’re the ones who beat up Herbie outside Elaine’s.” The man had a bad cut across the jugular and a butcher knife in his chest.

“Okay,” Cantor said, “now I call the cops.”

“Right.”

Cantor flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. “My name is Robert Cantor,” he said into the phone. “I’m a retired police officer. I want to report a homicide.” He gave the operator the address, answered a few questions, then hung up. “I think we should tell them I arrived here when you did.”

“Okay, but I just can’t see Herbie doing this; he’s not the type.”

“A cornered rat will fight a pit bull,” Cantor said. “You think I should wipe the prints off the knife?”

Stone shook his head. “Herbie’s going to get made for this, and we can’t cover it up. But given the history, we can make a clear case for self-defense.”

“I guess,” Cantor said. “I hope they don’t send the two bozos who were here last time.”

“Me, too.”

The bozos were replaced by a detective of about forty, accompanied by an attractive young woman who, Stone guessed, had a very new gold shield.

Stone and Cantor showed their NYPD I.D. “My name is Stone Barrington; this is Bob Cantor. We’re both retired homicide detectives.”

“My name’s Ed Cardoza,” the male detective said. “This is my partner, Emily Swift. What’s happened here, gentlemen? We heard of a homicide.”

“This way.” He led the detectives to the corpse. “There’s a backstory here,” Stone said.

Cardoza knelt and looked closely at the body. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he said.

“I’m an attorney,” Stone said. “I represent the man who lives here, Herbert Fisher.”

“Is this Fisher?”

“No. That’s a professional gorilla named Cheech, who works for Carmine Dattila. He and a buddy of his, whose name I can’t remember, are collectors for a bookie who’s owned by Dattila. Fisher owes twenty-four grand, and the two gorillas have beaten him up twice and kidnapped him once. Fisher was hiding out here from them. My theory is that they found him, attacked him, and Fisher somehow got hold of a kitchen knife and defended himself.”

“That’s a good theory if you’re a defense lawyer,” Cardoza said.

“It’s the only thing that could have happened,” Cantor said. “It’s not like Herbie would have invited them here, then killed one of them.”

“And what’s your connection to Mr. Fisher?”

“He’s my nephew, my late sister’s boy.”

“Okay. Let’s say your theory is good,” Cardoza said. “Where’s Herbie Fisher? And while we’re at it, where’s Cheech’s partner in crime? Gorillas tend to travel in pairs.”

“Beats me,” Cantor said.

“It would be like Herbie to run,” Stone said, “if he had the chance. On the other hand, the partner could have gotten the better of Herbie and taken him somewhere else.”

“I guess that’s a good possibility,” Cardoza agreed, “especially since Mr. Fisher left his weapon in Cheech’s chest. How about a description of both men?”

“Herbert Fisher is how old, Bob?” Stone asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“Five-six, a hundred and fifty, light brown hair.”

“Any visible scars?” the detective asked.

“Not unless he got them tonight.”

“How about the partner?”

“About thirty-five, six-three, two-seventy, black hair, a nose like a fist.”

“That would also fit Cheech here.”

“They could be brothers,” Stone agreed.

Cardoza turned to his partner. “Call in the descriptions and ask for an APB, then get a scene team over here.” The young woman reached for her cell phone, and Cardoza turned back to Stone and Cantor. “I guess you two are too smart to have touched anything here?”

Both men nodded. “It’s as we found it,” Stone said.

“How long ago?”

“Ten minutes,” Stone replied.

“You arrived together?”

Cantor spoke up. “I took a cab over here; Stone arrived in time to go inside with me.”

“Why were you here?” Cardoza asked.

“We were looking for Herbie,” Stone said. “He’s been on the run from these two guys, and we were worried about him.”

“You said he’s your client,” Cardoza pointed out. “Why does he need a lawyer?”

“He’s suing Carmine Dattila.”

Cardoza burst out laughing. “For what?” he asked when he’d gotten control of himself.

“Battery, kidnaping, attempted murder. I have a recording of Dattila ordering his death.”

“I’m gonna want that,” Cardoza said.

“It’s evidence in a lawsuit, but I’ll get you a copy tomorrow morning.”

“I’m gonna need the original.”

“Not yet. When I can, or when a judge orders it.”

Cardoza shrugged. “That’ll do for the moment, I guess.”

“How else can we help?” Stone asked.

“You guys wait in the hall while my partner and I go through this place.”

Stone and Cantor walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall.

“That went well, I thought,” Cantor said.

“As well as could be expected,” Stone agreed.

Stone spent the morning working and had a sandwich at his desk. He’d just finished a cup of coffee when Joan buzzed him.

“Dierdre Monahan from the D.A.’s office is on line one.”

Stone started to pick up the phone, but he gave himself a moment to review his history with Dierdre Monahan: They had met a couple of years ago at a Christmas party in the D.A.’s office. He had been trying a case downtown, and the opposing counsel had invited him to the party. After a couple of hours of eggnog and flirtation, he and Dierdre, who was an up-and-coming assistant D.A., had found themselves in a conference room, on the long table, wearing few clothes and exploring each other’s nether regions-this at a moment when the chief deputy D.A. had walked into the room with another woman, apparently with the same activity in mind.

Dierdre had taken a lot of guff from her coworkers about the incident, to the point where she had threatened to file a sexual harassment complaint, which had resulted in a promotion and a better office. Last year she had been assigned to prosecute Herbie Fisher for a DUI and attacking a police officer, who happened to be one of her four brothers on the force.

Stone took a deep breath, picked up the phone and punched the button. “Dierdre!” he nearly shouted. “How the hell are you?”

“Oh, I’m just dandy, Stone,” she replied, “and I’m sure you are, too. I just called to make your day a little worse.”

A trickle of anxiety ran down through Stone’s bowels. “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he replied. “What’s up?”

“Well, the Brooklyn D.A.’s office is a little backed up, so I took the murder one charge against Herbert Fisher off their hands.”

“Murder one? Are you nuts, Dierdre? That was a clear case of self-defense!”

“That’s not how I read it, buddy. If it was self-defense, why is Mr. Fisher on the run?”

“He’s been hiding from Carmine Dattila’s goons for a couple of weeks. He owes money to a bookie, and they’ve already beaten him up and tried to kill him.”

“I haven’t been able to locate the criminal charges on that,” she said.

“We’re treating it as a civil matter for the moment, but I’ve no doubt that criminal charges will result.”

“Oh, yeah, the detective told me you were suing Carmine. We all got a great laugh out of that.”

“Well, Dattila isn’t laughing; he sent those guys to Herbie’s apartment to kill him, and Herbie got lucky. That’s all this is.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you bring Mr. Fisher down here tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk about it.”

“I think that’s a good idea, but I don’t know where the hell he is. He contacts me from time to time, so when he does, I’ll give you a call, and we’ll get together.”

“You’re aware that there’s an APB out for him, aren’t you?”