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promised the moon to get what I wanted.
    “Aw, what the hell,” Nunzio finally relented. “The press already knows just about everything on this case, anyway. I don’t see how giving you this information will make any difference.”
    Yes! I silently rejoiced. Then I held my breath, waiting to hear that Bitsy von Falken had indeed gone to meet her maker draped in a shahtoosh shawl.
    “Nope, we didn’t find anything like that,” he responded.
    Damn!
    I thanked him and hung up. But I wasn’t yet ready to call it quits. Instead, I hightailed it into Jack Hogan’s office.
    “What’s up, Grasshopper?” he asked, without raising his head from his newspaper.
    It gave me quite the view. The few wispy strands of hair that clung to his scalp for dear life were still damp from their morning shower.
    “I just had an interesting message on my answering machine,” I informed him. “A tip was left that Bitsy von Falkenmight have been wearing a shahtoosh shawl when she died. Do you know if any shipments of shahtoosh have ever been smuggled into this port?”
    “Sure. We found one a couple of years ago,” Hogan matter-of-factly retorted. “Some company here in Jersey was bringing them in.”
    Bingo! If that wasn’t hardcore proof of smuggling, then I didn’t know what was. There was no way that Hogan could stop me from opening a case now.
    “Great. I take it that the owner was convicted,” I said, my pulse beginning to stir.
    “Nah. We couldn’t prove that the company knowingly violated the law. The owner claimed they thought the stuff was cashmere. He swore he’d never even heard of shahtoosh. So we slapped them with a three-hundred-and-fifty dollar fine and told them not to make that same mistake again. That was it. Case closed,” Hogan replied.
    Terrific. A 350-dollar fine amounted to no more than a speeding ticket. But then Fish and Wildlife’s penalty system was routinely viewed by companies as a cost of doing business. Get caught, pay a fine, and continue on with trade as usual. It was cynically referred to, by agents and inspectors alike, as “Monty Hall Justice,” or “Let’s Make A Deal.” The message that it sent was loud and clear: This is American commerce, where everything can be negotiated away.
    “Well then, they’re probably at it again,” I surmised. “Bitsy von Falken had to get that shawl from somewhere. And evidently, she wasn’t the only socialite who’s been running around town wearing one.”
    “If you’re trying to open an investigation, forget about it, Porter. That company closed up shop two years ago. They’re long gone. Besides, one shawl on a dead socialite does not acase make,” he shrewdly observed. “Did you bother to even ask the P.A. police if they knew anything about it?”
    “Yes,” I reluctantly responded.
    “And? What was the upshot?” Hogan inquired. “Do they have the damn thing?”
    “No. They said it wasn’t there,” I was forced to admit.
    “Then there’s your answer,” Hogan said, and returned to his newspaper.
    But I had a good idea where it was.
    I went back to my desk, grabbed the bag of bagels, and stuck my head inside Wildlife Inspector Fuca’s office.
    “Good morning. How about trying the best bagel in New York?” I offered, and shook the bag as a peace offering.
    Connie looked up from over her pile of papers and smiled hesitantly.
    “Sure. Why not?”
    I plunked the bag down on her desk and we each took a bagel.
    “Sorry to have snapped at you yesterday,” she said after the first bite. “It’s just that sometimes this whole thing really hits me. I’ve become nothing more than a paper pusher and it’s frustrating as hell. I begin to forget why I ever took this job.”
    “I can relate to that,” I told her. “I’m itching to do a case and instead wind up writing violations all day like some kind of glorified meter maid. Newark isn’t turning out to be my dream station, either.”
    “That’s odd. Everyone else here seems