and left. Brennan lifted the cup to his lips. He frowned. There was a note on the saucer. It was written on a ragged scrap of paper in a childish, impossibly tiny hand.
"If you want to no what the Shadow Fists are hidding," it read, "go to Stoney Brook, 8800 Glenhollow Rode. Be carfull. " Brennan quickly looked around the restaurant, and then immediately felt foolish for doing so. Someone had to be trailing him-or reading his mind. Someone knew as much about what he was doing as he did. It gave him a chilly, uncomfortable feeling, as if he were the hunted instead of the hunter.
He looked again at the note. It was unsigned, of course. It appeared as if it were sent by someone who was friendly, and seemed childishly innocuous with its semilegible scrawl and misspelled words. Brennan decided to check out the tip it offered, but also to follow its final hint and be very, very careful indeed.
2:00 P.M.
Kant didn't look pleased to see him. "I thought we got rid of you yesterday," he said.
"The reptile ranch was closed, so I came here," Jay said. "Where's your partner?"
"Out to lunch," Kant snapped at him. "Like you. Only with you it's a permanent condition." He showed his teeth. They were still pointed.
"Is that a joke?" Jay asked. It was, he was almost sure of it. He turned to a passing uniform. "Kant just made a joke," he said. The cop ignored him. "I don't think he was real impressed."
"You keep playing games with me, I'm going to make you real sorry" Kant promised. His moment of levity had obviously passed. "What the fuck do you want?" he asked irritably, rubbing at a big green scab under his collar. The starch must chafe his scales.
"I want to talk to Elmo," Jay said.
Kant was so surprised he stopped scratching his scab. "Get the hell out of here before I throw you out."
"You again?" Maseryk said as he sauntered up to the desk. He was chewing on a toothpick. It must have been a good lunch.
"He wants to see Elmo," Kant told his partner, in a tone that suggested it was the funniest thing imaginable. Maseryk didn't laugh. "Why?"
Jay shrugged. "Might as well, can't dance."
"Elmo isn't talking," Maseryk said. "We told him he had the right to remain silent, and damned if he didn't take us up on it."
"He'll talk to me," Jay said.
Kant and Maseryk exchanged glances. "And you'll tell us what he said?" Maseryk suggested.
"Wouldn't be sporting," Jay said.
Kant gave him one of his sideways blinks. "Get out of here before I lose my temper. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."
"Uh-oh," Jay said. "You hear that, Maseryk? Your partner was threatening me with police brutality. Do all lizards have such nasty dispositions, or is it just him?"
Kant came around his desk. He towered over Jay, all teeth and scales. "That's it. C'mon, asshole. Let's dance." Jay ignored him. "I've got a proposition for you," he said to Maseryk. "Why don't you tell your partner to go sun himself on a rock while we talk privately?"
Maseryk looked at Kant. "Give us a moment, Harv"
"You're going to buy into this bullshit?" Kant said. Maseryk shrugged. "He might have something." They walked down to an empty interrogation room. Maseryk shut the door, swung a chair around, and sat down with his arms crossed on its back, studying Jay with those piercing violet eyes. "This better be good," he said.
"It's a modest little deal, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption," Jay said. "You give me ten minutes with Elmo, I'll give you the name of the ace-of-spades killer."
Stony Brook-or, as the note had said, Stoney Brookwas a small suburban town in Suffolk County, Long Island. Brennan stopped at a gas station in his rented Toyota to ask directions to Glenhollow--thank heavens his unknown informant had managed to spell that right Road. It ran nearly parallel to Long Island Sound, and in fact turned into a wandering county road through sparsely settled, heavily forested country soon after Brennan turned onto it. A few houses were directly on the road, more stood back out of sight on meandering dirt lanes.
Brennan kept looking for number 8800, but missed it the first time by. He stopped when he saw number 8880 on a mailbox next to a dirt lane; checked for nonexistent traffic, then did a careful three-point turn and headed back down the road, this time driving even slower. This time