"Just to say hello."

"He deals, too, you know."

"Yeah"

"You think he might've known this Diaz guy?"

"I don't know."

"So Jamal pops four through the door..." "Yeah." so naturally they arrest him."

"Yeah."

"Then what?"

"Dragged him out of here."

"How come he was on the street again? How come they didn't lock him up?"

"I guess they figured they didn't have nothing on him."

"How about the gun? He shot at two fuckin cops, they didn't lock him up?"

"He thought it was Diaz."

"Did he have a license for the gun?"

"I think so."

"Guy with a record, they gave him a license?" "Then maybe not."

"So why'd they let him go?"

"I got no idea."

Ollie was thinking that sometimes a bull shit misdemeanor wasn't even worth taking downtown. included violations of 265.01, where a criminal with a firearm could get you a year in prison, which was insignificant even if you behaved yourself and got on the street in three and a third months.

But this Jamal jerk had popped four at a pair of cops which should have irked them considerably caused them to haul his ass downtown toot Unless they were thinking he'd be more valuable to them outside, lead them to whoever had torn out a dead hooker's insides, who the hell knew? Take a look at Ollie, first thing you'd be picking up all your and next thing you'd be downtown waiting arraignment with your shoes falling off and your falling down cause they took away your belt and shoelaces and your brand-new stolen Rolex.

Or and this was a possibility maybe they with a murder on their hands and the shift change they didn't want to bother with booking and mug shots and printing and court appearances on an Amis the guy might even walk if he pulled a bleedin black judge. Better to let the shithead walk especially since he'd been trying to chill shithead, which maybe next time he'd succeed,

more power to him. There are more things in police work, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your potato patch. Still, Ollie would ask.

Next time he was up the Eight-Seven, he would ask why they let a nigger in criminal possession of a weapon stroll right out of that li'l ole squad room ah, yes, m'dear boys, yes, indeed.

"So Yolande, and Jamal left here about a quarter to ten..."

"Yeah."

"And Jamal got back around eleven..."

"Yeah."

"And drove you to the Brill."

"That's right."

"And he was here when you got home around three..." "Three-thirty, it must've been." "He was home." "Yes."

"But Yolande never made it." "No. Which is funny." "Funny how?"

Ollie asked.

"Cause she called to say she was on her way." "Oh? When was this?"

"Around five-thirty in the morning."

"Called here?"

"Yeah. Told Jamal she was just leaving the Stardust..."

"The Stardust? Down on Coombes?"

"Yeah."

"And said she was coming home?"

"Soon as she could catch a cab," Carlyle said. Bingo, Ollie thought.

The uniformed radio motor patrol cops who pulled the taxi to the curb didn't think it was a stolen vehicle oh anything because a 10-69 was specifically an incident. But then why had the dispatcher radioed cars and asked them to stop and detain the taxi this particular license plate? Stop, detain, and back. That was the message.

So they pulled the cab over and asked the driver his license and while one of the cops looked it over if he were intercepting a huge dope shipment Colombia, the other one radioed home to say the perp and what should they do now? They asked where they were and told them to sit tight Detective Oliver Weeks from the Eight-Eight on the scene.

Meanwhile, Max Liebowitz was behind the wheel, wetting his pants.

This was a bleak area of Calm's Point.

had just dropped off two suspicious-looking guys who, it turned out, were stockbrokers home late from a party celebrating a dollar merger.

He didn't like being in this part of the city at a quarter to two in the morning, and he didn like being pulled over by cops, either both of them black, by the way---especially when they wouldn't tell him what the violation was, and especially since he was losing money sitting here by the side of the curb." Eventually a battered Chevy sedan pulled up in

front of the cops' car, and a fat guy wearing a lightweight trench coat open over his beer barrel belly got out. Under the trench coat Liebowitz could see a plaid sports jacket, also unbuttoned, and a loud tie that looked like it had on it every meal the guy had eaten for the past week. He waddled over to where the two black cops were sitting in their car flashing lights like it was still Christmas, and rapped on the driver's side window, and held up a badge. Liebowitz caught a flash of gold. A detective. The guy behind the wheel rolled down the window but didn't get out of the car. The fat guy seemed impervious to the cold. Had to be three above zero out there, still snowing, and he was leaning on the window with his coat wide open like a flasher, chatting up the two black cops. Finally he said something like "I've got it," or I'll take it," and thanked the two of them, and waved them off into the night, their car trailing white exhaust fumes. Ollie walked over to the taxi. "Mr. Liebowitz?" he asked.

"Yeah, what's the trouble?" Liebowitz said.

"No trouble, Mr. Liebowitz. I'm Detective Weeks, there's a few questions I need to ask you."

"I'm losing money here," Liebowitz said.

"I'm sorry about that, but this is a homicide, you see."

Liebowitz went pale.