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* * *

Jude got up early, fixed himself a cup of strong coffee and checked the want ads for a cheap room. He found three or four and circled the ads, including one around Astor Place that sounded right. It read: 1 bdroom, partly furnished, short-term, no pets/smokers, $800/mo.

He left a note for Skyler, grabbed his jacket and went outside, inspecting the street carefully before getting into his car. Nothing suspicious anywhere. It was one of those beautiful New York June days, a blue sky with wisps of clouds and sunlight shining through the leaves on the side streets, dappling everything on the sidewalks below.

He got to Astor Place in no time, beating the rush hour. A barrel-chested man in a white strap-sleeve undershirt sat in front of the dilapidated brownstone, his chair tilted back to rest against the stucco facade. The wall behind him was covered with graffiti, which seemed to blend with the tattoos on his shoulder muscles. With a dispassionate wariness he watched Jude park the car, waiting for him to walk over.

"Are you the super?" Jude asked.

The man remained tilted back in his chair, grunted noncommittally, and looked at Jude up and down. Finally, he leaned forward, stood up and turned to go inside, motioning with his head for Jude to follow.

The apartment was on the third floor to the rear. The door had so many coats of battleship gray paint it could only be opened with a kick, and the floors, covered in linoleum, slanted and creaked. The first room was the kitchen, with a chipped enamel stove and a refrigerator with a round cooling unit on top. Off to one side was a narrow bathroom with a half tub under a shower and a pink flowered shower curtain. The back room was the bedroom with a square table, an upended steamer trunk that had drawers, and a couch of two large pieces that could be reconfigured into a bed. It looked out over a fire escape leading down to a back alley.

The place was clean, so Jude decided to take it.

"I imagine you'll want references," he said, eyeing the cracks in the plaster ceiling. "I can provide them."

The super looked back with narrowed eyes. "No," was all he said.

"Do you mind if I take it in someone else's name?"

The super grunted again. "As long as she don't smoke," he said.

"No danger of that."

Jude wrote a check for the first month's rent, then another for the same amount as security.

"The name's Smith," he said. "Jim Smith."

"Why not just say John Doe and be done with it?"

"Too obvious."

* * *

Two hours later, Jude was at his desk at the Mirror, trying to dodge Judy Gottman, the assignment editor, who paced the aisles holding a piece of paper as if she were stalking game. When he saw her approaching his cubicle, he grabbed the phone and launched into a highly arresting and also highly fictitious conversation. He made it sound as if he were squeezing gruesome details out of a reluctant assistant district attorney. She stood by his desk, chewing gum impatiently.

"I want this to be exclusive—you hear me," Jude barked into the receiver, an undertone of threat in his voice. He looked over and raised his eyebrows, as if seeing Judy for the first time, then covered the mouthpiece with one hand and whispered: "Sorry — can't talk. This could be big."

Judy walked away, and he saw her corral another reporter.

He was putting off the call he knew he had to make. Finally, he inhaled deeply and picked up the receiver.

"Special Ops."

"Raymond La Barrett, please."

"And this is?"

"Jude Harley."

"One moment, please."

Jude used the few seconds to go over what he wanted: he needed to know if the FBI had taken over the New Paltz case and what they made of it.

"Hey, kid, how are you doing?"

Raymond's voice sounded natural. They kicked around some small talk for a while. Jude noticed that this time Raymond did not ask where he was calling from; perhaps he already knew.

"Raymond," he said finally. "I need more help on the New Paltz thing. It doesn't make any sense."

"How so?"

Raymond's voice still sounded nonchalant.

"Once I got the ID on the victim" — he was careful not to say, "Once you gave me the ID" — "I went up there to check it out."

"And?"

"And it's the damnedest thing. The victim's not the victim."

"What do you mean?"

"It was a judge, you remember? Well, he's alive. So someone else is dead who's got the same DNA."

"That's impossible. McNichol must have screwed up, that's all."

"That's what I thought. But he's dead sure he got it right."

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah, and that's not all."

"What else?"

Raymond's voice sounded suddenly guarded. Jude hesitated, then thought: what the hell; in for a dime, in for a dollar.

"Some workmen in front of the judge's house saw a guy they thought was the victim hanging around there some days before."

"Did they describe him?"

"Not very well. Only what he was wearing — a red shirt. That kind of thing."

Raymond paused for half a heartbeat. "What do you make of that?" he asked.

"I don't know," Jude replied. "Maybe he was trying to reach the judge, to contact him for some reason."

"What kind of reason?"

"I don't know. But a lot of strange things have been going on."

"Really? Like what."

"I can't say exactly, but take my word for it."

"Can't say or won't say."

"Maybe a little of both."

"Listen, kid. I don't know what you're smoking, but my advice is to keep away from this whole thing. It's a wild goose chase. You've got an unsolved murder and a nutty M.E. who made a bad call — that's all."

"Are you guys on the case?"

"Let's just say we've been informed about it. A homicide like this — the body all beat to shit and cut up — chances are, it's a Mob job. So we get brought up to date. That's not to say we're running anything, understand?"

"Yes. So you've got nothing to add?"

"Nothing that amounts to anything."

"Okay. Well, thanks anyway. If you get anything, will you call?"

"Sure thing. And, kid…'

"Yeah?"

"Keep your nose clean. It's about time for a beer."

Jude's mouth went dry. "Sure thing. Your place or mine?"

Raymond laughed. "Mine."

"Right. See you."

"Okay. Take care."

When Jude heard the click, he put the receiver down slowly. So Raymond had asked for a meeting. Something was up — something that his casual tone was at pains to conceal. And when had he ever ended a conversation with the admonition to "take care"? That didn't sound like him. Was it just one of those things people said — or was it a warning?

On impulse, Jude called his apartment. He let the phone ring three times, then hung up and dialed again. Skyler's voice came on the line, sounding nervous. He said the phone had been ringing all morning. Jude told him to stay put, that he'd be there soon.

When Skyler hung up, Jude spotted Judy, still on the prowl with assignments, and so he sat there for a moment, the receiver still at his ear. Then he heard it, a distinct sound — a second click. He knew from stories he'd done that that sound could only mean one thing: someone else on the line had just hung up. His home phone was being tapped.

Chapter 15

Jude was anxious to get home and make sure that Skyler was all right, but he had one more thing to do. He called up Nexis from his desktop computer and used a password borrowed from the research department to get into "Deep Nexis," a compilation of clips from all the major newspapers, magazines and scholarly journals. As an information-retrieval system, it reached into every publication of importance; Jude needed to cast a wide net. He didn't know much about the creature he was fishing for.