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textbooks, incomplete sets of outdated encyclopedias, odds and ends, bought by the yard from a used-book dealer, never meant to be read, just dressing for the shelves.”
    Jack took Blaine’s word for it, but Rebecca, being Rebecca, went to the bookcases to see for herself.
    “We’ve been after Vastagliano for a long time,” Nevetski said. “We had a hunch about him. He seemed like a weak link. The rest of the Carramazza family is as disciplined as the fuckin’ Marine Corps. But Vince drank too much, whored around too much, smoked too much pot, even used cocaine once in a while.”
    Blaine said, “We figured if we could get the goods on him, get enough evidence to guarantee him a prison term, he’d crack and cooperate rather than do hard time. Through him, we figured to finally lay our hands on some of the wiseguys at the heart of the Carramazza organization.”
    Nevetski said, “We got a tip that Vastagliano would be contacting a South American cocaine wholesaler named Rene Oblido.”
    “Our informant said they were meeting to discuss new sources of supply. The meeting was supposed to be yesterday or today. It wasn’t yesterday—”
    “And for damned sure, it won’t happen today, not now that Vastagliano is nothing but a pile of bloody garbage.” Nevetski looked as if he would spit on the carpet in disgust.
    “You’re right. It’s screwed up,” Rebecca said, turning away from the bookshelves. “It’s over. So why not split and let us handle it?”
    Nevetski gave her his patented glare of anger.
    Even Blaine looked as if he were finally about to snap at her.
    Jack said, “Take your time. Find whatever you need. You won’t be in our way. We’ve got a lot of other things to do here. Come on, Rebecca. Let’s see what the M.E.’s people can tell us.”
    He didn’t even glance at Rebecca because he knew she was giving him a look pretty much like the one Blaine and Nevetski were giving her.
    Reluctantly, Rebecca went into the hall.
    Before following her, Jack paused at the door, looking back at Nevetski and Blaine. “You notice anything odd about this one?”
    “Such as?” Nevetski asked.
    “Anything,” Jack said. “Anything out of the ordinary, strange, weird, unexplainable.”
    “I can’t explain how the hell the killer got in here,” Nevetski said irritably. “That’s damned strange.”
    “Anything else?” Jack asked. “Anything that would make you think this is more than just your ordinary drug-related homicide?”
    They looked at him blankly.
    He said, “Okay, what about this woman, Vastagliano’s girlfriend or whatever she is ...”
    “Shelly Parker,” Blaine said. “She’s waiting in the living room if you want to talk to her.”
    “Have you spoken with her yet?” Jack asked.
    “A little,” Blaine said. “She’s not much of a talker.”
    “A real sleazebag is what she is,” Nevetski said.
    “Reticent,” Blaine said.
    “An uncooperative sleazebag.”
    “Self-contained, very composed,” Blaine said.
    “A two-dollar pump. A bitch. A scuz. But gorgeous.”
    Jack said, “Did she mention anything about a Haitian?”
    “A what?”
    “You mean... someone from Haiti? The island?”
    “The island,” Jack confirmed.
    “No,” Blaine said. “Didn’t say anything about a Haitian.”
    “What fuckin’ Haitian are we talking about?” Nevetski demanded.
    Jack said, “A guy named Lavelle. Baba Lavelle.”
    “Baba?” Blaine said.
    “Sounds like a clown,” Nevetski said.
    “Did Shelly Parker mention him?”
    “No.”
    “How’s this Lavelle fit in?”
    Jack didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “Listen, did Miss Parker say anything to you about... well... did she say anything at all that seemed strange?”
    Nevetski and Blaine frowned at him.
    “What do you mean?” Blaine said.
    Yesterday, they’d found the second victim: a black man named Freeman Coleson, a middle-level dope dealer who distributed to seventy or eighty street pushers in a section of lower