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You may need it one of these nights.”
    â€œThat’ll be the day. Or night.” The briefest smile lifted the corners of Condon’s lips. But then he said, “What for?”
    â€œTo ask him to call out the National Guard. Nice meeting you, Chief. You’re everything I’ve heard.” And McCall gave Condon a friendly smile and wave and walked out. Policewoman Beth McKenna looked quickly at him as he left the chief’s office, and he raised his eyes heavenward and left.
    But then he stuck his head back in. “Remember,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
    Isn’t this where I came in? he thought.

FIVE
    McCall took the elevator to the second floor. The detective bureau was directly across the hall from where he stepped out. An arch took him into a long hall that ended at the door to the bureau’s squadroom. On the left side of the hall stood a counter behind which sat a uniformed sergeant, male this time. A door across the hall was gilt-lettered CHIEF OF DETECTIVES .
    McCall flashed his gold shield, dazzled the sergeant, and asked if LeRoy Rawlings had been brought in yet.
    â€œNo, sir. Unless they took him to central district for booking first. Want me to check?”
    â€œPlease.”
    The sergeant called downstairs and was informed that the Black Hearts vice president had not yet been brought in. He left word for the arresting officers to notify the detective bureau if they did show up at central district.
    â€œNow we’ll catch them no matter where they check in, Mr. McCall. By the way, Mrs. Franks is here. Another team brought her in.”
    â€œWho’s Mrs. Franks?”
    â€œIsobel Franks, Harlan James’s sister. He lives with her, or did until he jumped bail. She’s a widow a good fifteen years older than he is. She took him in after their father and mother died, when he was a teenager. He’s not married.”
    â€œMrs. Franks is in there?” McCall nodded at the squadroom door.
    â€œYes, sir. With Sergeant Dixon and Officer Spera.”
    The squadroom was a huge room full of plain tables and chairs. There were three phones to a table, one at each end and one in the middle.
    Four men in plainclothes sat at different tables, two using phones, two studying file folders. Another pair were in a corner with a middle-aged black woman, thin and bitter-mouthed. One of the men sat on the edge of a table, swinging a foot. The other sat beside the woman. They were neither talking to nor looking at her. Just sitting. McCall knew the technique. He felt himself bridle, and made a conscious effort to control himself.
    He went over and produced his shield case. The man seated on the table edge was big, blond, bullnecked. His partner was small and swarthy, with liquid Latin eyes. It was not difficult to decide which was Sergeant Dixon and which Officer Spera.
    The big blond man grunted. “So?” he said.
    Sergeant Dixon’s tone was deliberately insolent, even provocative. So the word’s gone out already, McCall thought. The governor’s boy is snooping around, and give him the back of your hand.
    â€œSo this,” McCall said. He indicated the rigid black woman in the chair. “What’s the story on this lady?”
    â€œHer?” Sergeant Dixon said, and from the way he said it McCall could have smashed his mouth. “She’s James’s sister.”
    â€œI’m aware of that. I mean why is she here?”
    â€œThe D.A. wanted her picked up. He’s supposed to be along any minute.”
    â€œWhat’s the charge?”
    â€œNo charge,” the blond man drawled. “He just wants to talk to her.”
    The thin black woman said in a toneless voice, “I have nothing to say to Pig Volper. For the tenth time, I want to phone my lawyer.”
    McCall looked from the sergeant to his partner. “Are you two preventing this lady from calling her lawyer?”
    â€œShe’s not a suspect,”