"By the way," Hawes said, "we have another B-sheet here," and turned it so Jamal could see the name typed across the top of it. MARX, YOLANDE MARIE, and below that, in parentheses, alias MARIE

ST. CLAIRE.

"Know her?" Carella asked.

If they had her B-sheet, they knew he was pimping for her. Was she in some kind of trouble again? The last time she'd shoplifted, he told her he'd break both her legs if she ever brought down heat again. Whatever this was, he figured it was time to play it straight. "I know her," he said. "You're her pimp, right?" "I know her."

"How about the pimp part?"

Jamal nodded, shrugged, wagged his head, waggled his fingers, all intended to convey uncertainty, they guessed. They looked at him silently, waiting for elaboration. He was wondering what Yolande had done this time. Why had they punched up her B-sheet? He said nothing.

Wait them out, he thought. Play the game.

"When did you see her last?" Hawes asked. "Why?". Jamal said. "Can you tell us?"

"Sure, I can tell you. But why?"

"Just tell us, okay?"

"I drove her down by the bridge around nine o'clock."

"Put her on the street at ten?" "Well... yeah." "Which bridge?" "The Majesta Bridge." "What was she wearing?"

"Little black skirt, fake-fur jacket, black stockin red boots, red handbag." "See her after that?" "No. Is she in jail?"

The detectives looked at each other. As Yogi once said, "When you come to a crossroads, take They took it.

"She's dead," Carella said, and tossed a photo onto the desk. The photo had been taken in the alley St. Sebastian Avenue. It was a black-and-white with the address of the crime scene camera-lettered white at the bottom of the picture, the date and time the right-hand corner. Jamal looked at the picture.

That was it. Dead hooker, you go to her pimp.

"So?" Hawes said.

"So, I'm sorry. She was a good kid. I liked her." "Is that why you put her on the street in underwear last night? Twelve fuckin degrees out there, you liked her, huh?"

"Oh, did she freeze to death?" Jamal asked.

"Don't get smart," Hawes warned.

"Nobody twisted her arm," Jamal said. "What was it? An overdose?"

"You tell us."

"You think I did her? What for?"

"Where were you around seven this morning?" "Home in bed." "Alone?"

"No, I was with my friend. You saw her. That's who I was with."

"Carlyle Yancy, is that her name?" "That's what she told you, isn't it?" "Is that her real name?"

"She's never been busted, forget it." "What's her real name?" "Sarah Rowland."

"We'll check, you know."

"Check. She's clean."

"From what time to what time?" Carella asked. "What do you mean?"

"Was she with you."

"She got home around three-thirty. I was with her from then till you came busting down my door. We were waiting for Yolande, in fact."

"We'll check that, too, you know." "She'll tell you." Meyer turned to Carella.

"You looking for a bullshit gun bust?" he asked. "I'm looking for a murderer," Carella said.

"Then go home, there's nothing but a 265.01 here." He turned to Jamal.

"You, too," he said. "We'll keep the piece, thanks."

When you pull the boneyard shift, you quit work eight, nine in the morning, sometimes later if a turns up in your soup. Say you're lucky and you home at nine, nine-thirty, depending on traffic. You kiss the wife and kiddies, have a glass of milk and a piece of toast, and then tumble into bed ten, ten-thirty. After a few days, when you're used to the day-for-night schedule, you can actually sleep through a full eight hours and wake up refreshed. This would put you on your feet again six, six-thirty in the evening. That's when you have your lunch or dinner or whatever you might choose to call it at that hour. You're then free till around P.M. At that time of night, it shouldn't take more than half an hour, forty-five minutes to get to the precinct.

While you're asleep or spending some time with your family or friends, the precinct is awake bustling. A police station is in operation twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the That accounts for its worn and shoddy look. Criminals never rest; neither does a police station. So while Carella and Hawes slept, the day worked from 7:45 in the morning to 3:45 in the afternoon, when the night shift took over. And while Carella was having dinner with Teddy and-the twins, and Hawes was making love with Annie Rawles, the night shift learned some things and investigated some

things but only some of these had to do with their two homicide cases.

During the hours of nine-fifteen that Sunday morning, when Carella and Hawes left the squad room and eleven forty-five that night, when they reported back to work again, things were happening out there. They would learn about some of these things later. Some of these things, they would never learn about.

At nine-thirty that Sunday morning, two of the Richards were in the empty lot across the street from the abandoned produce market, waiting for the other two Richards to come back with fresh pails of water.

They had done a good job of cleaning the trunk of the black Richard's car, but now they wanted to make sure there weren't any bloodstains anyplace else. The other two had gone for fresh water and fresh rags at a car wash some three blocks away, under the expressway. This part of Riverhead was virtually forlorn at nine thirty on a Sunday morning.

Hardly a car passed by on the overhead expressway. Empty window frames with broken shards of glass in them stared like eyeless sockets from abandoned buildings. The sun was shining brightly now, but there was a feel of snow in the air. Richard the Lion-Hearted knew when snow was coming. It was a sense he'd developed as a kid. He hoped snow wouldn't screw up what he had in mind. He was telling Richard the Second how he saw this thing.

"The girl dying was an accident," he said. "We were merely playing a game."

"Merely," Richard the Second said.

"She should've let us know if she was having difficulty breathing."

"That would've been the sensible thing to do." "But she didn't. So how were we to know?" "We couldn't have known."

"In a sense, it was her own fault."

"Did you come?" Richard the Second asked. "Yes, I did." "I didn't."

"I'm sorry, Richard."

"Three hundred bucks, it would've been nice to come."

"I think he took the money, you know."