"Told us a hundred and twenty-five, didn't he?" "Carella, yeah."

"So how come there was only five in the envelope Priscilla asked.

'"Which isn't exactly horseradish," Georgie reminded her yet another time.

He desperately wanted her to believe that th was what the old lady had in mind when she said her

granddaughter would be taken care of. He wanted her to get off that missing hundred and twenty. He knew where ninety-five of that was. It was in an envelope inside a shoebox on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, tucked into one of a pair of black patent-leather slippers he wore with his tuxedo on special occasions like New Year's Eve.

"What happened to the other hundred and twenty?" Priscilla asked again.

Georgie was still doing arithmetic.

Old lady took a hundred and twenty-five from the bank. But there was only a hundred in the locker. So where'd the other twenty-five go?

Lorenzo was weeping into his hands.

This was because he was Italian. It was also because his lawyer had advised him to tell him everything he knew about this old lady's death before the cops called in a lot of people who'd begin pointing fingers at him. Moscowitz listened without benefit of an interpreter as

Lorenzo broke his tale in broken English.

It was a sad story.

After he heard it, Moscowitz told the detectives he had no doubt the crime had been committed, but there were unique and sympathetic circumstances surrounding it. In view of these unusual conditions, he had advised his client to tell his story in the presence of a district attorney, and was therefore requesting one now.

Which meant he was ready to cop a plea.

It was snowing outside by the time Assistant District Attorney Nellie Brand got to the Eighty-sevel Precinct: She felt cold and bedraggled even though she looked toasty warm and well-tailored in brown leather boots, a beige blouse, and a headband that complemented, and complimented, blue eyes and sand-colored hair.

She'd had an argument with her husband leaving for work this morning, and her manner with detectives she knew as well as those from Eight-Seven was unusually brusque. She knew Moscowitz, too, had in fact lost a court case to him six months ago. Altogether, her mood did not go well for Lorenzo Schiavinato, who looked handsome by half and who had, by his own admission to his attorney, pumped two slugs into a little old lady. Nellie had already been briefed. And in translating, she began the Q and A with the name/address/occupation bullshit, and then eased into a routine she'd followed a hundred times before. Thousand times. It was exactly 11:04 A.M.

Q:.

So tell me, sir, how long did you know the murdered woman?

Carella noticed that Nellie, too, had avoided using Schiavinato's name.

He figured if the man ever got out of jail, he should change it to Skeever or something. But it also occurred to him that Nellie had called Svetlana Dyalovich "the murdered woman," and wondered if she was having difficulty pronouncing her name, too. Maybe everyone in the world should change his name, he thought, and missed part of Lorenzo's reply.

A:... at the fish market.

Q: Would this be the Lincoln Street Fish Market? A: Yes. Where I work.

Q: And that's where you first met her?

A: Yes.

Q: When was this?

A: The middle of September. Q: This past September. A: Yes.

Q:.

So you've know her approximately four months. A bit more than four months.

A:.

Yes.

Q:.

Were you ever in her apartment on Lincoln Street?

A:.

Yes.

Q:.

1217 Lincoln Street?

A: Yes.

Q: Apartment 3A?

A: Yes.

Q: When were you there? A: Twice. Q: When?

A: The first time to deliver fish for her cat. Svetlana was sick, she called the market... Q: You called her Svetlana, did you?

A: Yes. That was her name.

Q: And that's what you called her.

A: We were friends.

Q:.

Did you visit your friend in her apartment on the night of January 20, two days ago?

A:.

I did.

Q:.

To deliver fish again?