ons."
"I've seen worse," Janek said. "His theory about the writing wasn't bad." They began to walk back toward the One-seven.
Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out." she paused.
"When I meet a guy like that, I'm ashamed to be in the same outfit."
"There but for the grace of God…'"
Sue looked at Janek curiously. "If I thought I was going to end up like Stiegel I think I'd eat my gun."
They walked a block in silence. Then Janek turned to her: "What I want you to do is find that girl, the one who got sliced in the hotel."
"There ought to be something in the hospital records."
Janek nodded. "Find her, handle her right and she may put you on to the rest of them."
"And once we're on to the bad girls, maybe we can find the girl did Dietz."
When they reached the precinct, Janek started to look for a cab. "I'm due at the Savoy for a stand-up with Channel Six." "I'll drop you," Sue said, "then head over to Roosevelt. I want to get started on this right away."
Janek could have kissed her. "You like the work, don't you?" he asked as he slipped into her car.
"Want the truth?" Janek nodded. "I love it-every friggin' minute. I love it so much my lover's jealous. She says I'm more committed to it than her. And you know what, Frank? She's friggin' right!"
"We understand Mr. Dietz was shot in the head."
"We also hear his room was ransacked. Was there a robbery, Lieutenant?"
"There are things missing. But we're not sure robbery was the only motive."
She examined him skeptically. "Does this mean that visitors aren't safe from crime even in a luxury hotel?"
"It doesn't mean that at all. We're still investigating. My preliminary opinion is that Mr. Dietz was targeted."
"There're rumors around the hotel that shortly before he was killed he was seen with a redheaded woman in the downstairs lounge. "
"Sorry, Meg-you know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."
"There you have it. Lieutenant Janek will not confirm the presence of a mystery redhead seen with Philip Dietz just before he was killed.
Meantime, the question hangs in the air, are visitors to Manhattan safe, even inside two-hundred fifty-dollar-a-night hotel rooms? This is Meg Chang, Channel Six News, in front of the Savoy."
Although he was exhausted, he couldn't get to sleep. The encounters of the day kept ricocheting inside his brain. Dakin, Capiello, Kane, Carlson, Timmy, Stiegel-as soon as he finished reviewing his meeting with one, memories of his meeting with another would intrude.
The confrontations had been too intense, the aroused emotions too inflamed, for him simply to push the skirmishes out of mind. These men haunted him-their sad, canny or glaring eyes; their ravished, hard or angry faces. There was a common element, he realized: Each, in his way, was a victim of the city and each had found his own way of coping with its violence. Even Kane, from out of town, seemed, with his threats and games, like a New Yorker.
Close the album, let their faces fade. Plenty of time to think about them tomorrow.
 The image of the redhead came into his mind, the two artists' sketches superimposed. Yeah, he thought, something about her, something about her eyes… He took a half dozen deep breaths, rolled over onto his side, exhaled, then felt himself finally falling-falling into sleep.
A quarter hour later his telephone rang. Although it took him only a couple of seconds to come awake, the process seemed interminable, as if he were rising slowly from a deep, dark well. Grasping for the receiver, he knocked the phone to the floor.
"Frank? Are you there?" When he picked up the handset he heard Sarah's voice.
"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "I was asleep."
"Sorry. I didn't know. It's just eleven."
"I had a tough day. Maybe you could call back-"
"I want to talk about the roof. I left a couple of messages."
"I got them. Why don't we-?"
She interrupted. "That last estimate's pretty good. I told the contractor you wouldn't pay five figures." He thought a moment, then made up his mind. "Yeah. well, I'm not going to pay anything."
Silence. Her voice went terse. "What do you mean, Frank?" "Just what I said. Don't count on me. I'm out."
"This is pretty strange. I thought we had an understanding."
"I told you I'd consider it. I have. It's your problem now. So, please, let's not talk about it anymore."
A long silence. "May I ask why this change of heart?"
Sure, that's fair. "I don't feel like paying for it, okay'?"
Another silence, then she hissed, "You are a bastard!"
"Don't start on me, Sarah."
"You broke your word!"
"I never gave you my word."
"Of course you did!" "No," he said. "You heard it that way because you wanted to."
"Not true, Frank!"
"I can't believe you'd break your word just like that. Without telling me. Without even-"
Suddenly there was an explosion, so close it pained his ears. Then he heard pieces of metal cascading down upon the street. His first thought was that a gas main had exploded and ripped open the pavement.
"Hold on. Something happened."
He got out of bed. Carrying his phone, he went into the living room to look out'the window. People in the building across the way were standing in nightclothes in lit windows staring down.
He moved closer to the glass to see what they were staring at. It was the wreckage of a car. There wasn't much left of it, just the frame, a hulk of smoldering steel. The hood, doors and other parts were strewn about.
Then it hit him. It was his car. The smoke was rising from the remains of his Saab, parked where he'd left it after returning from seeing Dakin.
"There, Frank?" Sarah's voice grated against his ear, still ringing from the explosion.
"You want to know what's going on?" :'Is it a secret?" She snickered.
"No, it's not a secret." He felt himself growing furious, at her and at the world.
 
It was only later, when he'd gotten over his anger and incredulity, that he asked himself just whom he'd meant by they.
There were times when, staring into mirrors, she felt herself empowered.
 At first she didn't notice. She was lying in bed reading the latest issue of ARTnews with the TV set on across the room. As usual, she had the sound turned down so that the flickering television was little more than a barely audible presence. She probably would have missed the story entirely if she hadn't happened to look up just as a still photo of her latest mark filled the screen. She nearly choked when she saw it.
She sat up, grabbed her remote, thumbed down hard on the volume control, then clicked her VCR on to record. An attractive young Asian woman was talking to a tall, tired looking man in front of the Savoy. They were talking about Phil Dietz. From the gist of their conversation, Gelsey understood that Dietz had been murdered in his room.
She watched spellbound. The tired man was a detective; the Asian woman was a journalist. The detective was middle-aged, and had searching eyes with bags beneath them and a well-sculpted chin. He also displayed a world weary manner that she associated with certain French film stars of the 1940s. The reporter asked sharp, aggressive questions to which the detective responded with patient, noncommittal answers. And then they started talking about her:. a redheaded woman in the downstairs lounge… a mystery redhead seen with Philip Dietz just before he was killed… "
After the segment was over, she rewound the tape and watched it again.
She got out of bed, pulled on her clothes, began to pace the loft. If Dietz had been stabbed with, say, a pair of scissors, she might have cause to worry that she'd done the deed, perhaps in the amnesic dream-sister trance-state into which she sometimes slipped after taking down a mark.
But she distinctly remembered hearing Dietz snore when she wished him sweet dreams from his door. So, whatever had happened to him had occurred after she'd left the room. She had left it neat, too-she remembered that. Yet the reporter had referred to it as "ransacked."
That meant that someone had gone into it after she had left. Which meant, again, that whatever had happened to Dietz had had nothing whatever to do with her.
Except… They were looking for her now. The detective's searching eyes told her he was a hunter. She knew the sort of man: quiet, sometimes gentle, but relentless in pursuit. He