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of an innocent man.”
    â€œI’m not indifferent, Miss Corado.” Dunne said. “It’s just that I don’t handle murder investigations.” What he didn’t say: especially today, with Babcock in the morgue, his wife in custody, Brannigan on the warpath .
    Her brown eyes widened with the look of a child who’d been slapped, same combo of hurt and indignation. She got up abruptly. The end of her cigarette was a curve of gray ash. “Is there an ashtray?”
    He pointed at the floor. She dropped the cigarette, covered it with the toe of her black high heels, ground it with a slow, deliberate twist of her thin, silk-hosed ankle. “Saving an innocent life, I suppose, is too much trouble when you can make more money peeping into people’s bedrooms.”
    â€œIf you want people to take your money, that’s easy. You want results? That’s another matter.”
    â€œBut not something you care to rise to.” She continued to grind the cigarette.
    â€œYour brother have a trial?”
    â€œThe prosecution was on a crusade. Mr. Dewey wanted my brother’s head so he could wave it about in a campaign. He even came in person to hear the summation.”
    â€œMr. Dewey has plenty of heads already.” Everybody’s from Lucky Luciano’s, the Syndicate’s kingpin who’d ascended from the Lower East Side, to Richard Whitney’s, the Wall Street titan and descendant of the Mayflower crowd. In his career as Assistant U.S. Attorney, special prosecutor, and D.A., Dewey had amassed a Who’s Who of heads. The head of Miss Corado’s brother would be only a secondary addition, a small but pointed reminder of Mr. Racket Buster’s unremitting war on evildoers. “Your brother had his own lawyer, didn’t he?”
    â€œThe lawyer for my brother? He might as well have worked for the prosecution. He never believed in Wilfredo’s innocence. Never . He told Wilfredo to plead guilty and throw himself on the mercy of the court.”
    â€œLawyers have given a lot worse advice, believe me.”
    â€œI can see I’m wasting my time. But to be truthful, the coldness and meanness of this city no longer surprise me. Roberta Dee may be surprised about you, but I’m not.” She walked toward the door. “You are not the man she thinks you are.”
    Once in the war, at the start of the battle of the Ourcq, in 1918, soon before their position was almost overrun and Major Donovan was wounded, a German shell came out of nowhere and hit the rim of his foxhole, one of those 77 millimeter shells the Americans call a “whiz bang” because it exploded almost at the same time you heard it finish its descent. It would have been an instantaneously fatal explosion if Dunne hadn’t been leaning down to pick up his canteen. He didn’t so much remember the deafening concussion as the stunned quiet that followed, the paralyzed surprise.
    A moment like this. “Who?”
    â€œShe was certain you’d take the case. She insisted I come.”
    â€œRoberta Dee is a friend of yours?” Dunne’s chair moaned as he leaned back; and again as he rocked forward.
    â€œA friend and a customer. Although she could afford to go elsewhere, Miss Dee buys most of her clothes at my dress shop. She’s been through the whole ordeal of the trial with me. She convinced me to stay away from the courtroom. She said the press would only use my presence to make an even greater sensation.”
    â€œRoberta Dee who lives on Grand Army Plaza?” Dunne half expected her to smile or laugh.
    â€œOf course,” she said. She seemed to be choking back tears. “I’ll show myself out.” She didn’t bother to close the door.
    Jerroff poked his head into the office. “If there’s a divorce involved, and Miss Corado should seek advice on financial matters, I’ll give her my special rate.”
    â€œKeep your