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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 Manhattan that had been conferred upon him by the Carramazza family, which had become an equal opportunity employer in order to avoid ill-feeling and racial strife in the New York underworld. Coleson had turned up dead, leaking from more than a hundred small stab wounds, just like the first victim on Sunday night. His brother, Darl Coleson, had been panicky, so nervous he was pouring sweat. He had told Jack and Rebecca a story about a Haitian who was trying to take over the cocaine and heroin trade. It was the weirdest story Jack had ever heard, but it was obvious that Darl Coleson believed every word of it.
    If Shelly Parker had told a similar tale to Nevetski and Blaine, they wouldn’t have forgotten it. They wouldn’t have needed to ask what sort of “strange” he was talking about.
    Jack hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not really important.”
    If it’s not important, why did you bring it up?
    That would be Nevetski’s next question. Jack turned away from them before Nevetski could speak, kept moving, through the door, into the hall, where Rebecca was waiting for him.
    She looked angry.
    VI
    Last week, on Thursday evening, at the twice- a-month poker game he’d been attending for more than eight years, Jack had found himself defending Rebecca. During a pause in the game, the other players-three detectives: Al Dufresne, Witt Yardman, and Phil Abrahams-had spoken against her.
    “I don’t see how you put up with her, Jack,” Witt said.
    “She’s a cold one,” all said.
    “A regular ice maiden,” Phil said.
    As the cards snapped and clicked and softly hissed in Al’s busy hands, the three men dealt out insults:
    “She’s colder than a witch’s tit.”
    “About as friendly as a Doberman with one fierce damned toothache and a bad case of constipation.”
    “Acts like she don’t ever have to breathe or take a piss like the rest of humanity.”
    “A real ball-buster,” Al Dufresne said.
    Finally Jack said, “Ah, she’s not so bad once you know her.”
    “A ball-buster,” Al repeated.
    “Listen,” Jack said, “if she was a guy, you’d say she was just a hard-nosed cop, and you’d even sort of admire her for it. But ‘cause she’s a hard-nosed female cop, you say she’s just a cold bitch.”
    “I know a ball-buster when I see one,” all said.
    “A ball- crusher ,” Witt said.
    “She’s got her good qualities,” Jack