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  “And what do you make of that, Sherlock?”

  “They were 9mm cartridges, so in all likelihood the weapons were big automatics with large-capacity clips—standard hit-man issue. Now, this set me to thinking. Why was one gunman so much better than the other? The mob, we presume, would hire only the best for such an important mission. Why send a cockeyed shooter in with a pro? And then something else occurred to me. I didn’t want to believe it at first, so I did a little digging, hoping to disprove it. But unfortunately I failed.” McCleery went into his inside pocket and came out with a few folded sheets of paper, photocopies. “These are copies of both your marksmanship evaluations the last three times you each visited the range. Your ability with the 9mm pistol is quite admirable, Tozzi. Yours, however, Cuthbert, is sorely lacking. See here. Your scores with the revolver are markedly better than your scores with the automatic.”

  Tozzi looked at Gibbons. It was true. Gibbons was much better with a revolver.

  “Now, I remember from that brief time Ivers put us together that you shunned the standard-issue weapon in favor of some old Colt .38 you had. You were quite fond of that piece, Cuthbert. I remember you complaining bitterly that you disliked automatics, that you could never get used to the recoil, the odd way they twisted back after you fired.”

  A cloud of vapor spewed out of Gibbons’s nose. “Make your point, McCleery.”

  “Well, it’s not really a point, just a notion really. The ballistics report indicates that one gunman was skilled and impetuous, apparently eager to get the job done. The other seemed to hang back—maybe gave the orders to the impetuous one—and he showed only fifty-percent accuracy with the two shots he took. You could say that this profile fits you two fellas to a T.”

  Tozzi’s gut bottomed out. Great.

  Gibbons was smiling with his teeth. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Sherlock. This one just might secure your place in the Assholes Hall of Fame. You know, anybody can take reports and random clues and make them fit a scenario, but that doesn’t make it fact. Any good cop knows that. What if there weren’t two gunmen? What if there was only one guy and he had a gun in each hand? One gun would naturally be more accurate than the other, unless he was ambidextrous, which most people aren’t.”

  “Come now, Cuthbert, this isn’t the Wild West we’re talking about. Bad guys in black hats with twin six-shooters? Let’s get back to reality.”

  “See, this is what I’m talking about. You’ve fallen into the biggest pitfall in law enforcement. You’ve convinced yourself that this is how it went down and you’re gonna force all the evidence you’ve got to support that contention. The only thing you’ve proven here is that you’re a fucking nitwit.”

  “Calm down now, Cuthbert, and mind your blood pressure. I didn’t say I was married to this notion. All I said is that I’m entertaining it. A professional doesn’t discount any possibility.”

  Especially if it can hang us. Tozzi was sweating under his coat.

  “Well, it’s getting cold out here.” McCleery was smiling cheerily. “I’m going back in with Mr. Dunbar. He said he was putting a fresh pot on. You two can carry on with whatever skulduggery you were up to. I just thought I’d let you know what I was thinking in case you were planning some of your typical derring-do. Have to keep you on your toes.” He turned and crunched back down the gravel path, disappearing into Mr. Dunbar’s hut.

  A chill wind swung the limbs of the tall pine tree that loomed over the rows of sample headstones. The sky was pewter-gray. Tozzi looked at Gibbons, who was glaring at the hut. His gut was aching and he felt as if his ankles were sunk in concrete, stuck in place while large forces rolled dangerously close to him like giant boulders. He wanted to do something to help himself, but he wasn’t sure what he could do. He had a few vague ideas, but they were all of the extralegal variety, strategies Gibbons definitely wouldn’t go along with. Gibbons talked a good game, but when you came right down to it, he was a straight arrow, a by-the-book man. It was time to shake things up, his way, but Gibbons would never go for it.

  “So what do you think?” he finally said.

  Gibbons’s eyes darted in his direction. They were sharp and mean. “I think McCleery has gotten way out of hand.”

  “I think the whole situation has gotten way out of hand.”

  “You’re right. It has.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Gibbons looked down at the sad little angel. “I think it’s time to shake things up, make something happen, find out who knows what.” He looked Tozzi in the eye.

  “Really?”

  “Really. You got any ideas? You usually do.”

  Tozzi rubbed his jaw and looked his partner in the eye, a little suspicious of him. “Yeah. I got a few ideas.”

  — 16 —

  Tozzi could hear the hubbub coming from upstairs. He peered up the winding stairway, but he didn’t see anyone, just a lot of oil paintings on the wall going up the stairs, smug-looking burgermeister types in powdered wigs and sharp-eyed dowagers in bonnets and long skirts, portraits of the Augustine ancestors, no doubt. From the tinkle of glasses and the convivial voices, it sounded like Augustine was having a little party up there.

  The maid had told him to wait here. Actually she’d tried to get rid of him—some Eastern European battle-ax with a chest like an icebreaker—but Tozzi had insisted that it was very important, so with a deep scowl of disapproval, she climbed the stairs and said she’d tell Mr. Augustine he was here, but she doubted that he’d want to be disturbed while he was entertaining.

  Tozzi grinned behind her back. He was gonna disturb her boss all right. More than she could imagine.

  Tozzi crossed his arms and checked the place out as he waited. The bannister on the staircase was dark-stained cherry wood. On the ceiling, a brass chandelier was centered on an ornate plaster medallion. A dark wood cabinet with polished brass hardware was the only piece of furniture in the hallway. Tozzi didn’t know squat about antiques, but he had a feeling this was the real thing. He peered out the small leaded-glass windowpane in the front door. Two black limos were double-parked out front. East Sixty-sixth Street right off Fifth. Fancy schmancy.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly to see a pair of oxblood wing tips coming down the carpeted stairs. The shoes were almost the same color as the cherry bannister.

  “Mike. What can I do for you?”

  Augustine put his hand out as he came off the last step. He was wearing a blue suit with a solid maroon tie. His white shirt looked so starched it made Tozzi hunch his shoulders. It was the classic politician outfit. He’d read an article a long time ago about political media consultants and how they handled their clients. It was generally agreed that if you wanted your man to come off as sincere, caring, and dedicated, you dressed him in a single-breasted dark blue suit, a solid white shirt, and a solid tie in a muted color. Yeah, that was Augustine—Mr. Sincere, Caring, and Dedicated. We’ll see about that.

  Tozzi shook his hand. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Augustine—”

  “Tom. Please.” Augustine’s smile was warm. His eyes crinkled with sincerity. No hard feelings from the other day after Uncle Pete’s funeral.

  Tozzi nodded. “I apologize for coming here like this, Tom, but I think this is important. I’ve come up with a theory on the killings at Uncle Pete’s. Well, more than a theory, really.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ah . . . maybe we should go somewhere a little more private.”

  “Of course. Come up to the study.”

  Augustine led the way up the stairs. When they got to the second floor, Tozzi got a glimpse of the party. The double doors leading to the front room were open. It was a big living room where at least a dozen people in evening clothes were chatting and laughing, most of them standing in small groups. The busty battle-ax was carrying a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres, serving the guests. As far as Tozzi could see, except for her and one other woman, everyone else in the room was bl
ack.

  “We’re having a little dinner party,” Augustine explained.

  Tozzi recognized a few of the faces in the crowd. An assemblyman from Brooklyn, a prominent Harlem minister, a former borough president.

  “They’ve been nagging me to wine and dine certain influential people. The party, that is. They want me to run for mayor next year, even though I keep telling them I don’t have a prayer.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Tozzi. “This city is not going to elect a WASP mayor, and frankly it shouldn’t. The mayor should represent his constituency, don’t you think? Nevertheless, whether I run or not, they tell me these affairs are good for the party. So . . .” Augustine shrugged and grinned as if it were out of his hands.

  Yeah, right, Tom. The bastard was sucking up to whoever could get him elected. Tozzi glanced back into the living room. The reverend was squinting through his bifocals, studying the selection on the battle-ax’s tray. Tozzi wondered how often blacks were guests in this house. From the look on the maid’s face, not very.

  Augustine led the way to the back of the town house, to a dark, secluded room lined with bookshelves. He flipped the wall switch and a brass banker’s lamp on the desk went on. The squat desk, another grand antique, sat catty-corner to a green velvet fainting couch. The desk conveyed the same smugness as the fat burgermeisters in the hallway; the couch was as prim and unforgiving as the spinsters. Tozzi had expected Augustine’s study to be beige and blue with pewter fixtures, sort of a George-Washington-slept-here kind of room. He didn’t expect it to look like a psychiatrist’s office.

  “Sit down, Mike.” Augustine indicated the fainting couch as he sat down behind his pompous desk.

  Tozzi frowned at the low couch and reluctantly sat on the edge, resting his elbows on his knees. Augustine always made sure he had the power position. He was leaning back in a swivel chair, looking down at Tozzi from behind the desk.

  The prosecutor settled in, positioning his index finger on his temple. “So tell me about your theory.”

  “Well, you may think this is totally off the wall, but just hear me out, okay?”

  Augustine smiled encouragingly and nodded. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve gone over the security arrangements we had at Uncle Pete’s house, and even though it was all put together in a hurry, it was good. The place was fresh. It had never been used before.”

  Augustine nodded. “Okay . . .”

  “Which says to me that either someone with inside information leaked it to Salamandra’s people where we were keeping Giordano, or—and this is what I’m thinking now—someone on the inside actually did the job for Salamandra.” Tozzi watched for a sign of shock, but there was nothing.

  “Ummm . . . Go on, Mike.”

  “Now, there were only two offices that knew the exact location of Giordano’s safe house—yours and mine.”

  “And Marty Bloom knew.”

  “Yes, but Bloom was killed, too, so I don’t think we can count him as a suspect.” Tozzi laughed.

  Augustine joined him, slightly.

  “Now, there were only a handful of people at the field office who had detailed on-site knowledge of the safe house. Basically, it was the six agents who had guard duty and Brant Ivers. Your office, I don’t know about.”

  Augustine screwed up his face. “You’re saying that someone from either the FBI or the U.S. Attorney’s office killed Giordano, Bloom, and the two agents. Why?”

  “Money, why else? Salamandra must’ve waved a lot of cash under someone’s nose.”

  Augustine frowned. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I can see why Salamandra would want Giordano dead, but why kill Bloom and the two agents?”

  “Well, see, I’m beginning to think that killing Marty Bloom was as important as killing Giordano. Maybe more important. See, getting rid of Giordano just prevented him from testifying, but killing Bloom created an opportunity to get the judge to declare a mistrial and junk the whole trial.”

  “And why kill the two agents?”

  Tozzi shrugged. “Cooney and Santiago just happened to be there.”

  “That’s awfully coldhearted behavior for someone who presumably has never killed before. That is, if we accept your assumption that the killer—or killers—are government employees with no previous criminal record.”

  “I agree. It’s very coldhearted.” Tozzi paused and looked Augustine in the eye. Why was Augustine assuming that the killer was a first-timer? He hadn’t said that. He studied the prosecutor’s face. It was almost imperceptible, but Augustine’s face had taken on a slightly harder edge.

  Keep pushing.

  “Now, this is where I come in,” Tozzi continued. “I think the killer somehow wangled it so that the finger would be pointing at me. I dunno, maybe he paid off that reporter Moscowitz to run that story. What I said wasn’t really news. It seems to me that it was just tacked on to the end of his article. I dunno, I’m not a writer. But I think the killer’s intention was for me to be his insurance policy. If Marty Bloom’s murder didn’t get the mistrial, having an FBI agent indicted for the killings definitely would. As it is, the defense lawyers are all screaming government conspiracy. If I’m indicted, Judge Morgenroth won’t have much choice but to grant it, right?”

  Augustine cupped his jaw with his hand and raised his eyebrows. “It would seem so, yes. I’d have to check for a precedent to be certain.”

  I’ll bet you already have.

  “Anyway, I wanted you to hear me out on this, Tom, because I want to know what you think before I go to Ivers. I admit I’ve had my problems with you, but I think basically you’re a fair guy and we both want the same thing. Right?” Tozzi watched his face.

  “Naturally.” The lawyer’s eyes were crinkling with warmth and understanding again, but it seemed a little forced now.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Well . . .” Augustine sat up straight. “Well, I think you’re making a very serious allegation, and I think you should carefully consider the consequences of making this allegation before you pursue it any further.”

  Father knows best. Let’s not be imprudent about this, Bud. Yeah, just watch me.

  “I do realize this is pretty serious business, Tom, but every time I think about Salamandra and his buddies getting off—which is exactly what’s gonna happen if there’s a mistrial ‘cause they’re all gonna hightail it down to Brazil or someplace where nobody’ll find them—I get sick to my stomach. Do you know what I mean? It’s not just me I’m worried about. It’s the trial too. These guys are guilty as sin. They should rot in jail. Especially Salamandra. But a mistrial . . .” Tozzi pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know, Tom, I’m not very religious, but I’ve been so frustrated with this whole situation, I’ve been thinking about going to church and praying for a miracle, a legal miracle. I’m serious. I almost called one of my aunts to ask her if there was a patron saint of lawyers, so I could pray to him.”

  Tozzi watched Augustine’s face. It was suddenly like rock.

  “You’re under a lot of stress right now, Mike. People tend to be reckless when they’re under this kind of pressure. I’d hate to see you have to suffer for something done in the heat of the moment.”

  “Are you telling me I’m not thinking straight? That I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?” Augustine’s eyes were glinting behind the stone mask.

  Tozzi shrugged. “To tell you the truth, sometimes I wonder myself.”

  No one spoke. They just stared at each other in the dim light of the desk lamp. Discreet laughter could be heard coming from the party down the hall.

  “Do you have any hobbies, Mike? Something that could take your mind off this situation. Some kind of relaxing sport. Like deep-sea fishing, maybe.”

  So you could have me thrown overboard?

  “I hate fishing. It’s boring. Aikido is my thing. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. You told me. Well, I think you should find something to occupy your
time. Pursuing this investigation independently will only get you into more trouble. I can almost guarantee it.”

  “You think so, huh?” Tozzi looked at the floor and nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should let the system do its thing, stay out of it. If I’m innocent, I’m innocent, right? McCleery and the police will make sure of that, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  More laughter, uproarious this time.

  Tozzi glanced at the door “Must’ve been a good joke.”

  Augustine didn’t respond.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, Tom. I should stay out of it, keep my cuckoo theories to myself. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have anything to do. Christ, Uncle Pete’s place is still a pigpen. I could fill three Dumpsters with all the shit that’s in there.”

  Augustine just stared at him. Cold eyes in a block of ice.

  “Yeah, I ought to mind my own business before I make things worse. I’m supposed to be getting Uncle Pete’s place in shape so we can put it up for sale. I ought to just concentrate on that. That’s what I should be doing. . . .”

  Tozzi looked at his shoes and nodded, letting his words trail off into the silence. He picked his head up suddenly and tapped his forehead.

  “I just remembered something.” He reached into the side pocket of his jacket. “You’re a classy guy, Tom. You probably know all about good rugs.” Tozzi pulled out a swatch he’d cut out of the big rug, a square patch about four by four, big enough to show some of the red background as well as the blue and beige pattern. Tozzi flipped it in his hand as if he were weighing a pancake, then he tossed it to Augustine like a Frisbee. It startled the prosecutor and he banged his chair into the desk as he jumped to avoid it. It landed on his tie. Augustine peeled it off and dropped it on the desktop under the light of the lamp. The muscles in his neck were suddenly tight and well defined.

  “This is what it looks like. You think it’s worth much?”

  All of a sudden Augustine looked like one of those stern old matrons hanging over the staircase, especially around the mouth. “I don’t know anything about rugs.” He picked up the swatch and tossed it back to Tozzi.