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“I’m Jake Cardigan.”
    â€œYeah, I figured as much,” he said. “Your timing was pretty damned good.”
    Jake asked him, “What about this cassette they’re so eager to get hold of?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t have any idea what the hell it could be.”
    T HE WHITE-ENAMELED medibot nudged the sprawled body of the little bald man with his metal foot. “Detective or hoodlum?” he inquired of Jake.
    Jake was sitting on the arm of the sofa. “The two in here are goons.”
    â€œWe have to keep them sorted,” explained the mechanical man. “Criminals go to a different medical facility.” He bent, creaking slightly in the hip joints, to roll the unconscious intruder onto a wheeled stretcher.
    As soon as the body hit, the stretcher went rolling across the living room and into the hallway.
    Detective Busino came walking in right after the bald man left. “That’s the way it goes sometimes, one damn thing after another.” He glanced over at Gomez, who was slumped in a tin wingchair. “Hi, Sid. I met you a couple times out in Greater LA when you were still a cop.”
    â€œEncounters, Buzz, that have remained fondly etched in my cabeza .” Tapping his temple, he came stretching up out of the chair. “I’m with Cosmos now.”
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œYonder is my partner, Jake Cardigan.”
    Busino studied Jake for a few seconds. “I heard, yeah, that you were out of prison.”
    â€œWith all charges dropped,” reminded Gomez.
    â€œSure, but they can’t give you back the four years you were on ice in the Freezer. Life isn’t usually fair.” The policeman moved closer to Jake. “Any idea, Cardigan, what’s going on?”
    â€œToo soon to tell.”
    â€œWhat brings you to Manhattan?”
    â€œWe’re looking into Mrs. Bascom’s death.”
    â€œNot an accident, you think?”
    â€œToo soon to tell.”
    â€œI’ll be sure to look you up when you finally do have something to tell,” promised the officer. “Mr. Bascom, can you add anything?”
    â€œThey broke in. I don’t know why.” Richard was seated stiffly in an armchair, still wearing his outercoat.
    Busino crossed to a window. “Always a lot of people coming and going,” he observed. “Well, life goes on.”
    Gomez asked him, “You know either of those louts who busted in?”
    â€œThe big one is Chaz Quinlan.”
    â€œLet me guess—he’s a freelance.” Gomez brushed at his curly moustache. “He’ll work for just about anybody and he has a lousy memory.”
    â€œThat’s Chaz,” agreed Detective Busino. “The other one is Roy Scarbo. Nastier than Chaz and somewhat smarter. He usually does odd jobs for various Teklords in the Tristate area, but he, too, will work for just about anybody who can meet his price.”
    â€œIt’s not likely,” observed Jake, “that either one is going to tell us much.”
    â€œNope, they’ll end up telling us just about nothing at all.” Busino turned to face Richard. “What did they want?”
    He shook his head. “They broke in and the bald one—Scarbo? Scarbo pointed a gun at me,” he said. “Then Cardigan was here and it was over.” He rubbed his hands, slowly, together. “Do you think this has anything to do with my wife’s death?”
    Busino’s smile was small and brief. “I wouldn’t,” he said, “be at all surprised.”
    G OMEZ, ON HIS knees in a corner of Eve Bascom’s bedroom, was saying, “It’s a knack you ought to cultivate, Richard.”
    â€œI haven’t had much practice.” He was sitting, arms hanging at his sides, on his wife’s neatly made bed.
    â€œYou’ll find that being able to lie effectively to the minions of the law is an