Maria stuttered momentarily. "H . . . H . . . How much money?" There was a look of fear in her eyes, and her fists were held even more tightly in her lap.

"We're talking eighty or ninety thousand dollars," Bradford said. "Probably closer to ninety." He watched the woman's face fall, seemingly crushed beneath the weight of his words. "And I'm afraid at least eighty percent of that would have to be guaranteed in some way before we could begin." He paused a beat, then went on to ask what he knew was a useless question. "Do you have any relatives or friends who could help?"

Maria Avalon shook her head. "No. But I will find the money," she said. "I promise you I will find it."

Bradford smiled. It was the kind of smile one gives a small child who has said he can fly. He nodded. "When you do, please contact me immediately, and I'll get things rolling. In the meantime I'll authorize your son's release from the hospital. You can take him home tonight. Just try to keep him as inactive as possible."

When Jennifer entered Bradford's office a half hour later, he handed her Roberto Avalon's chart. "The mother has zip for insurance," he said. "I doubt we'll be hearing from her again, but file this as an ongoing case anyway."

"Should we be expecting the results of any tests?" Jennifer asked.

"No, no tests. I didn't order any." He noted the surprise on her face. "I've given her a free consultation. I can't give her free tests, too." Bradford gave a regretful shrug. "In fact, the child is being sent home today. The hospital's already absorbed the cost of a bed for three days. And that's about as far as they're willing to go. So just file it and we'll see what happens. Who knows, maybe the mother will come up with the money." He sat back, allowed the look of regret to fade. Jennifer tucked the chart under her arm and turned to leave. Bradford's voice stopped her.

"Before you go, there's just one other thing." He smiled as she turned back to face him. "I wanted to talk to you about your uniform," he said.

"My . . . my uniform?"

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," Bradford said. "Just something I thought we might agree on."

Tuesday, 3 a.m.

Frankie Fabio, affectionately known to friends as Don Cheech, waddled up the wide marble steps of Brooklyn's 78th Precinct. He was short, perhaps five-seven -- and plump, about a hundred and eighty pounds -- but he walked with a swaggering arrogance that few short, fat men ever achieved. To do this he held his head tilted slightly back, which allowed him to look along his nose at whomever he encountered. The pose was augmented by a permanent smirk that complemented the arrogance reflected in his eyes. It told all he met that he knew they were full of shit.

Frankie swaggered toward the high desk that dominated the dingy, dimly lit waiting area. He was dressed in a tan sports jacket over sharply creased brown trousers, with a wildly patterned sport shirt open at the neck. A gold cross was visible against his hairy chest. As he moved forward, he took in the name tag of the sergeant who occupied the desk, trying to recall if he knew this gray-haired, balding old hairbag. Frankie had spent twelve years of his newspaper career as police bureau chief for the New York Globe. Now, as an assistant city editor, he liked to intimidate young reporters by claiming that during that time he had spoken to every cop above the rank of sergeant. But this hump -- this Kowalski -- didn't ring any bells at all. He pursed his lips with displeasure. Tonight of all nights you gotta run into the one fucking Polack you missed, he told himself.

Fabio removed his press card from his wallet and held it up. "Frank Fabio, assistant city editor for the Globe," he said. "I understand you got one of my troops upstairs."

The sergeant looked up, glanced casually at the press card, then looked down again. "That's right," he said.

"So, I wanna see him," Fabio said.

"Good luck," Kowalski said. "Take a seat."

Fabio's cheeks flushed. "Take a seat? A seat? I donıt think you understand me. I wanna see him . . . like now!"

The sergeant looked up and sneered. He was fat and unnaturally pale, and his cheeks were filled with the thin red lines of burst capillaries. "Fuck you. You'll sit and wait like everybody else."

Fabio's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Listen, you hump, maybe somebody didn't explain something to you." Fabio began jabbing a finger to emphasize certain words. "Right now, you have got one of my people in custody. Right now, I've got the deputy commissioner on his way down here to sort this bullshit out. You play this fucking game with me, when he gets here Iım gonna have him sort you out."

Kowalski glared at him. "Hey, big shot, you want my ass, you got it. Next week I got my thirty years in. You can come down here and watch me throw in my papers. Then you can plant a big guinea kiss on both cheeks." His lips curled into a snarl, and he spoke through his teeth. "Until then, it's like I said: Fuck you."

Fabio's face turned scarlet. "You son of a bitch! You don't think I can find a way to rain on your fucking parade? You just watch me, you piece of shit."

"Frankie, Frankie, take it easy." Fabio turned and saw Mike Murphy hurrying toward him. Murphy was deputy police commissioner for public affairs, and an hour earlier Fabio had awakened him and told him that he had better get down to the Seven-eight. Murphy was in his late thirties, a big and once beefy Irishman, with a red face and now doughy body, each the result of an ongoing love affair with Jack Danielıs. Before accepting an appointment as one of the cityıs pseudo cops, he had been a political reporter for the Globe, and, as such, he had little doubt about what Fabio could and would do if provoked.

Murphy stared at the desk sergeant in disbelief. "What the fuck is the problem here?" he snapped.

"This guy's telling me he wants to go upstairs," Kowalski said.

"So let him upstairs," Murphy snapped again. "What the hell's the matter with you? We're not goddamn enemies here."

"Policy says no unauthorized personnel beyond this area, unless escorted on official business," Kowalski said. The sergeant's tone had become calm, cool, and indisputably unctuous. Fabio could feel the smirk hiding behind the deadpan exterior.

"So I'm escorting him," Murphy growled. "You have a problem with that?"

"Whatever the commissioner wants," Kowalski said. He glanced at Fabio, allowing the smirk to enter his eyes.

Fabio turned to Murphy as he pointed a finger toward the desk. "You know, it's bad enough one of your clowns rousts one of my people. Now I've got this hairbag giving me shit. But, hey, why not? I'm only an editor for the biggest fucking tabloid in this country." He glared at Murphy. "I thought we could work something out here, Mike. But this whole damned thing is taking a very ugly turn."

Murphy raised his hands, as if trying to fend off Fabio's anger. "Frankie, calm down. We're going to work everything out if it's at all possible. Let's just go upstairs and see what the story is." He drew a breath, as if dreading his next words. "And we've got two reporters up there, not one."

"What?"

"Whitney Morgan was with Burke when he got busted. They busted her, too." He drew a breath. "Apparently she didn't want to notify the paper. I guess she figured Burke was already doing that. She used her call to get hold of her old man's lawyer. He's supposed to be on his way in from Long Island."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Fabio stared at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. "And what did your resident geniuses charge her with?"

Murphy studied his shoes. "Same as Burke. Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer."

Fabio looked to one side and started to chuckle. "Little Miss North Shore Wasp? Little Miss Vassar graduate? A broad whose rich little ass has never passed so much as a fucking fart? She assaulted one of your cops?" The chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh. "Jesus Christ. When your humps decide to fuck something up, they don't go halfway, do they?" Fabio shook his head in disbelief. "Maybe I should just call it in to rewrite now. Tell the desk to save some space on page three."

Murphy took Fabio's arm. "Come on, Frankie. Let's just find out what happened before we do anything. Okay?"

"Of course." He laughed again. "I can't wait to see what else these assholes did." Fabio's eyes snapped back to the desk sergeant. "And don't think I'm forgetting you, you prick."

Kowalski fought to keep the deadpan in place. "I'm here till next Wednesday, sir. I'll be happy to help you in any way I can."

Fabio sneered at him. "You'll be fucking amazed at what I can do in eight days," he said.

Murphy and Fabio entered a windowless interrogation room, further crowding the space already taken up by a uniformed sergeant and four patrolmen. Billy Burke sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. There was an abrasion on his left cheek, but he was otherwise unmarked. He also appeared to be sober, something Frankie Fabio was relieved to see. Whitney Morgan occupied another chair a few feet away, her hands cuffed in front. Her very lovely face glowed with mortified rage.

"What is this shit with the handcuffs?" Fabio demanded. He turned on Murphy, feigning outrage.

Fabio knew very well why handcuffs were in place -- at least on Burke. Burke was six-two, an easy two hundred ten pounds, and even at thirty-eight very little of it was fat. Years ago he had been a starting safety in the Big Ten, and had been known as a ferocious hitter. Fabio had seen that ferocity only once. But it had been enough. An Aussie correspondent had gone after Burke in Costello's, a major newspaper watering hole. The Aussie, a hulking asshole who turned bullyboy whenever he was drunk, had tried to take Burke's head off with a roundhouse right. It had proved a serious mistake. Burke had left him on the barroom floor, unmoving for almost five minutes. Fabio had been certain the man was dead.

"Take the handcuffs off," Murphy growled. He glared at the uniformed sergeant.

Fabio walked over to Whitney as the cuffs were removed. She had short, dark hair, cut to accent high cheekbones, vivid green eyes, and a small, straight, very patrician nose. She was beautiful in a very definite Waspy way, with a trim, slender body, about which Frankie had enjoyed untold fantasies. Office rumor claimed that she had been sharing that body with Burke for the past six months.

"Are you okay, Whitney?" Frankie asked.

"I just want to get out of here," she said through clenched teeth.

Frankie noticed that the tailored, dark blue suit she wore showed barely a wrinkle, even after hours in this hellhole precinct. He touched her shoulder reassuringly. "It won't be long."

Turning, he went over to Burke. "Billy, my lad." He raised his chin, indicating the abrasion on Burkeıs cheek. "They do that to you?"

Burke gave him a small, bitter smile. "The arresting hump. After I was cuffed."

"That's a fucking lie." The words came from a heavyset cop, about Burke's size. He had thinning hair that was turning gray -- about forty, Fabio guessed -- and there was heavy swelling on the right side of his jaw. From a very good left hook, Fabio decided.

Frankie turned to Whitney. "You see this clown hit Billy?" he asked.

Whitney nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Was Billy cuffed when he hit him?"

"Yes."

Frankie turned and walked over to the cop. His name tag identified him as Grady. Fabio's head was tilted back, giving Grady the full value of his "you're full of shit" look. "So it's a fucking lie, huh?"

Grady glowered at him. "That's right. It's a fucking lie."

Fabio took a step back as though he had been struck. Then he started to laugh. "Hey, Commissioner. Come over here and get a whiff of this hairbag. He smells like he's been sucking on a bar rag."

Murphy closed his eyes and shuddered. Then he turned to the uniformed sergeant. "Did you test Burke and Miss Morgan for alcohol?" he asked.

"No, sir," the sergeant said.

"You've had them here for -- what -- three hours now? So why didn't you test them?"

The sergeant's jaw tightened. "There didn't seem to be a reason to, Commissioner."

Fabio had gone back over to Burke. He turned toward the sergeant, then inclined his head toward the arresting cop. "Did you test Grady?"

The sergeant stared at him, his eyes blank. "No."

Fabio turned to Murphy. "Who was riding shotgun?"

Murphy turned back to the sergeant for an answer.

"Officer Muldoon," the sergeant said.

A young, slender officer took a step forward. Fabio looked him up and down. No more than a year out of the academy, probably less, he decided. He also noticed Muldoon was wearing a different precinct insignia, indicating he had been "flown in" for the night, either because Grady's regular partner had been off or -- as sometimes happened with trouble-prone cops -- because nobody else in the precinct would ride with Grady.

Fabio put on his glasses and looked at the insignia more closely. "You work out of Coney Island?" he asked Muldoon.

"Yes, sir." To Fabio, the young cop looked as though he wanted to be there now.
"You get flown in here regularly?"

"Just this week, sir."

Fabio turned toward the sergeant. "If the Globe's lawyers check the patrol sheets, you think they're gonna find that somebody gets flown in every time Grady's on patrol?"

The sergeant's jaw tightened, but he maintained the blank stare. "I wouldn't know, sir."

Fabio laughed. "Yeah, I bet you wouldn't." He turned back to Muldoon, noticed that the young cop was standing as far away from Grady as he could get. "You see what happened tonight?" he asked. Fabio had removed a reporter's notebook and a pen from his pocket. Had he pulled a pistol, the effect on Muldoon could not have been greater.

"No, sir," Muldoon said. "I was in the patrol car, trying to raise the precinct on the radio."

From behind Frankie, Billy Burke let out a low laugh. "Jesus, I thought I remembered you standing right next to that clown. I even thought I remembered you grabbing him when he went for his gun after I knocked him on his ass."

"No, sir," Muldoon said. "I was in the patrol car. I didn't see anything."

Burke let out another laugh, and Frankie turned toward him. He raised one finger to his lips. "Not another word, my troop," he said.

"Yes, my Cheech," Burke said. He grinned at the floor and shook his head.

Frankie turned to Murphy. "You wanna dance this fucking dance some more, or should we just leave now and maybe -- just maybe -- forget it ever happened?"

Before Murphy could answer, a tall, gray-haired man was led into the room. He went immediately to Whitney. Frankie watched them confer in whispers, then turned to Murphy, keeping his own voice as low as possible. "Of course, it may be too late." He watched Murphy's facial muscles dance against his cheek. "But if you want, I'll see what I can do?"

Murphy turned away from the roomful of cops, took Frankie by the arm, and led him out into the hall. "What's it going to cost me?"

Frankie inclined his head toward the interrogation room. "A minor contract on Officer Friendly in there," he whispered. "And another small one on that hump desk sergeant."

Murphy drew a deep breath. "See what you can do."

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