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〃You're wele； I'm sure；〃 Croaker said； getting back into his car。 He left the bicycle where it lay in the street。
Jesus； he thought。 What's bee of this city？ It was here that he and Nicholas Linnear had met many years ago。 He reached for the paper cup of cold coffee on the dashboard； regarding his left hand as he did so。 In the coarse of their subsequent work together Croaker had lost his left hand。 In its place； a team of clever Japanese surgeons had attached this biomechanical substitute。 He still marveled at it。 The fingers were realistically articulated like flesh…and…blood digits。 Powered by a pair of special lithium batteries； the hand was sheathed in matte black polycarbonate； stainless steel； and blued titanium。 Inside were the bones； muscles； and tendons of boron and titanium。 It was an altogether impressive construct； part implement； part weapon。 It had taken him months to get used to it； a year to master the intricacies of its multiple uses； but now it seemed to him an integral part of his body。
Croaker was a big beefy man。 In recent years； he had let his muscle run to fat； much like an out…of…work football player； but Nicholas had put him on a strict regimen of exercise and healthy food； and his softness was slowly burning off； leaving hard muscle in its wake。 Croaker had always been enormously strong。 The addition of his biomechanical hand had only made him more so。 He had the weather…beaten face of a cowboy。
Some years before； he had prematurely retired from the NYPD to Marco Island in Florida where for the past several years he had been running a charter fishing boat service。 Vegetating； in other words。 Alix； the woman he had lived with down there； had claimed he looked like Robert Mitchum； an opinion he found amusing。
He glanced at his watch。 Three minutes to ten。 He saw Margarite a moment later in a tweed suit the color of ox…blood as she got out of the taxi down the block。 Her beautiful face was tense as she headed toward her weekly ten A。M。 meeting at her accountant's office。 She had the look of a professional gambler； the successful integration of intuition and logic that was the key to beating house odds； no matter which house。
It was torture seeing her this way and not being with her； but what other choice did he have？ At least； if he kept his distance he could maintain the thin fiction that this was just another job tailing a suspect； and thus keep his sanity。
Croaker unfurled a newspaper in front of his face like a wall。 His relationship with Margarite was liminal。 His sense of her was constantly changing； the layers of her personality and her role in his life peeling away to reveal others beneath。 She was not only Dominic Goldoni's sister； but his successor。 Through her husband； Tony D。； she now ran the Goldoni empire as efficiently as Dominic had。 But what had been Dominic's ultimate purpose？ Through the course of his investigation Croaker had e to understand that Dominic Goldoni had been a good deal more than a cold…blooded gangster。 He had had more lofty goals in mind than merely raking off his percentage from almost every major business sector in the East。 His ties to the entrenched Washington establishment were exceedingly strong。
He and Mikio Okami； the Kaisho … the head of all the Japanese Yakuza bosses … had formed a clandestine alliance。 But to what purpose？ Neither Nicholas nor Croaker had yet found out。 First； they had to find Okami。 Periodically； the Kaisho had funneled useful information to Dominic Goldoni。 Though Dominic was dead； the conduit was still open and Margarite was using it。
Nicholas and Croaker had together decided that this would be Croaker's dread assignment： to shadow the woman he loved in order to trace the information conduit back to Okami。 As he watched her cross the wide； plazalike sidewalk； Croaker knew he was at risk from a double…edged sword。 Not only did he need to keep his work secret from Margarite； but he also had to be on guard lest Okami's enemies get wind of what he was doing and piggyback on his investigation； using him as a stalking horse to get to Okami。
Through large glass panels； he watched Margarite step into the elevator that would take her up to the twenty…eighth floor。 That she could stay in the same house as Tony D。 was a measure of how seriously she took her responsibility to her late brother； Dominic Goldoni。 Tony had a history of abusing her； their intimate relationship was nil； and as a result； their daughter； Francine； was chronically depressed and bulimic。 Still； it seemed strange to Croaker； when he was with Margarite； to know that she was married； bound to a man who was； in effect； her mask for the dark world she chose to inhabit。 The words on the printed page were not registering； and he closed his eyes。 But he could not stop his thoughts。 The irony of his being in love with a woman on the other side of the law was devastating in its simplicity。
〃Hey； buddy； this is a no…standing zone；〃
Without looking around Croaker dug out the federal badge given to him by his former boss； the late and unlamented William Justice Lillehammer； the man who had put him in charge of the investigation into Dominic Goldoni's murder。 He held it up at the window so the traffic cop would go away。
〃Turn off your engine and get out of the vehicle； please。〃
Croaker put down the paper。 Instead of one of Manhattan's brownies； he saw a uniformed policeman； a young man with an unmanageable stubble and muddy brown eyes。
〃You see this shield； Officer？ I'm on assignment； not in your jurisdiction。 Give it a rest。〃
Keeping his eyes on Croaker； the cop reached in； unlocked the door； opened it。 〃Please do as I say。〃
〃Are you nuts？ I'm a fed。〃
〃Now。〃
Croaker found himself looking at the cop's right hand as it wrapped around the wood grips of his handgun。 Where was this guy when the rich bitch was having her handbag snatched？ He put the badge away； got out of the car。 He could see the blue…and…white squad car parked just behind him； its revolving lights off。 There was a uniformed cop behind the driver's seat； who seemed to be staring straight ahead； at nothing。
〃e with me； please；〃 the young cop said amiably but firmly。
Croaker shrugged； got into the back of the squad car as blue…jaw indicated。 The cop got in beside him and they pulled out into traffic。 They did not use their lights or their siren。
Croaker sat back and said nothing。 He was too much a veteran to ask questions he knew would not be answered。
He'd be better off concentrating on these two and where he was being taken。
The driver was older； a heavyset man with a mole on the side of his nose； and a wooden toothpick rolling back and forth between his liverish lips。 He seemed unfortable； as if his uniform were a bad fit。
They went west； then downtown to the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel。 New Jersey； Croaker thought。
〃Don't even think about it；〃 blue…jaw said。 His gun was pointed at Croaker's rib cage。
Sure； Croaker thought。 What New York cops would be taking me across the river to Jersey？ No wonder the driver was unfortable in his uniform。 This was probably the first time he'd had one on。 Who were these guys？
They seemed to be a long time underwa