It began with a bottle of Frangelico that Vince wanted him to taste.

Then Ross got an identification bracelet of heavy silver links, a cashmere pullover, a Countess Mara tie, a lizard skin belt, a foulard ascot. Every time they met, Symington had a present for him.

Ross had been invited to Vincent's apartment twice, and thought it the greatest pad he had ever seen. On one of those visits, Symington had prepared dinner for them-filet mignon that had to be the best steak Konigsbacher ever tasted.

Meanwhile, the Kraut was submitting bullshit reports to Sergeant Boone, wanting this assignment to go on forever.

But Boone couldn't be scammed that easily, and recently he had been pressuring Konigsbacher to show some results: Either confirm Symington's alibi or reject it. So, sighing, Ross did some work.

The first time he went into Stallions, he bellied up to the bar, ordered a beer, and looked around. Symington had been right: He had never seen so much black leather in his life. All the weirdos were trying to look like members of motorcycle gangs. Their costumes creaked when they moved, and they even had zippers on their cuffs.

"Nick been around?" he asked the hennaed bartender casually.

"Nick who, darling? I know three Nicks." :"The kid who wants to be an actor."

"Ohid, him. He's in and out of here all the time."

"I'm casting for a commercial and might have a bit for him. If you see him, tell him, will you?"

"How can he get in touch with you, sweet?"

"My name is Ross," Konigsbacher said.

"I'll be around. The bartender nodded. No last names, no addresses, no phone numbers.

The Kraut spent more time at Stallions than he did at boine. He slowly sipped beers in the late afternoons and early evenings before his dinner dates with Symington. He began to like the place. You could get high just by breathing deeply, and if the Kraut wanted to set a record for drug busts, he could have made a career out of this one joint.

It took him five days. He was sitting at a small corner table, working on a brew, when a kid came over from the bar and lounged in front of him. He had a 1950 duck's-ass haircut with enough grease to lubricate the QE2. He was wearing tight stone-washed jeans, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a wide leather bracelet with steel studs.

"You Ross?" he asked lazily, eyes half-closed, doing an early Marlon Brando.

"Yeah," the Kraut said, touching a knuckle to his blond mustache.

"You Nick?"

"I could be. Sidney pointed you out. Something about a commercial bit."

"Pull up a chair. Want a beer? Or would you prefer a banana brandy?"

"A Then the kid's eyes opened wide.

"How'd you know what I drink?"

"A fegela told me. You know what a fegela is? A little bird. Now sit down."

Nick hesitated a moment, then pulled up a chair.

"You don't look like a film producer to me," he said.

"I'm not," Konigsbacher said.

"I'm a cop." Then, when Nick started to rise, the Kraut clamped onto his wrist and pulled him down again.

"Be nice," he said.

"You're carrying a switchblade on your hip. It shows. I could run you in on a concealed weapons charge. It probably wouldn't stick, but it would be a pain in the ass for you and maybe a night in the slammer where the boogies will ream you. Is that what you want?"

The kid had moxie; he didn't cave.

"Let's see your ID," he said coldly.

Konigsbacher showed it to him, down low, so no one else in the bar would notice.

"Okay," Nick said, "so you're a cop. What do you want?"

Symington was also right about the accent; it came out "waddya wan'?"

"Just the answers to a few questions. Won't take long. Do you remember a Friday night early in November? There was a hell of a rainstorm. You were in here that night."

"You asking me or telling me?"

"I'm asking. A rainy Friday night early in November. A guy came in, sat with you, bought you a few banana brandies.

This was about nine, ten o'clock. Around there."

"Yeah? What'd he look like?"

Konigsbacher described L. Vincent Symington: balding, flabby face, little eyes. A guy running to suet, probably wearing a bracelet of chunky gold links.

"What's he done?" Nick asked.

"Do you remember a guy like that?" Ross asked patiently.

"I don't know," the kid said, shrugging.

"I meet a lot of guys." The Kraut leaned forward, smiling.

"Now I tell you what, sonny," he said in a low, confidential voice, "you keep smartassing me, I'm going to put the cuffs on you and frog-march you out of here. But I won't take you to the station house. I'll take you into the nearest alley and kick your balls so hard that you'll be singing soprano for the rest of your life. You don't believe it?

Just try me."

"Yeah, I met a guy like that," Nick said sullenly.

"A fat old fart. He bought me some drinks."

"What was his name?"

"I don't remember."

"Try," Ross urged.

"Remember what I said about the alley, and try real hard."

"Victor," the kid said.

"Try again."

"Vince. Something like that."

Konigsbacher patted his cheek.

"Good boy," he said.

As far as the Kraut was concerned, that was enough to clear L. Vincent Symington. He had never believed in the poof's guilt in the first place.

Vince could never kill anyone with a hammer. A knife maybe-a woman's weapon.

But not a hammer.

So, Konigsbacher thought sadly, that was the end of that.

He'd submit a report to Boone and they'd shift him to some shit assignment.

No more cashmere sweaters and free dinners and lazy evenings sitting around Symington's swell apartment, soaking up his booze and trading dirty jokes.

But maybe, the Kraut thought suddenly, just maybe there was a way he could juggle it. He would clear Symington-he owed the guy that-but it didn't mean the gravy train had to come to a screaming halt. Confident again, he headed for dinner at the Dorian Gray, wondering what Vince would bring him tonight.

Robert Keisman and Jason thought Harold Gerber might be a whacko, but he was innocent of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee. Gerber's confession was what Keisman called a "blivet7- four pounds of shit in a two-pound bag.

The Vietnam vet just didn't know enough of the unpublished details to fake a convincing confession. But Delaney wanted the guy's innocence proved out one way or another, a Id that n s what the two cops set out to do.

The Catholic Bible was a flimsy lead. They had no gut reaction one way or the other. The only reason they worked at it was that they had nothing else. It was just something to do.

They started with the Manhattan Yellow Pages and found the section for Churches-Roman Catholic. There were 103 listings, some of them with odd names like Most Precious Blood Church and Our Lady of Perpetual Help. the thought of visiting 103 churches was daunting, but when they picked out the ones in the Greenwich Village area, the job didn't seem so enormous.

The Spoiler took the churches to the east of Sixth Avenue and Jason Two took those to the west. Carrying their photos of Harold Gerber, they set out to talk to priests, rectors, janitors, and anyone else who might have seen Gerber on the night Ellerbee was murdered.

It was the dullest of donkeywork: pounding the pavements, showing their ID, displaying Gerber's photograph, and asking the same questions over and over: "Do you know this man?

Have you ever seen him? Has he been in your church? Does the name Harold Gerber mean anything to you?"

Sometimes the church would be locked, no one around, and Keisman and Jason would have to go back two or three times before they could find someone to question. They worked eight-hour days and met after five o'clock to have a couple of beers with Harold Gerber. They never told him what they were doing, and he always asked complainingly, "When are you guys going to arrest me?"