Down the line to his right, the phone rang.

"Tha' mus' be Chico," the grifter said, and lifted the receiver. "Si? Chico?"

"Heeeyyyy, man! Que pasa?" Rob said in his best imitation of Cheech Marin. "Like what's happenin', man?"

"Chico?"

"Chico's dead, asshole," he said in his own voice. "And you'll wish you were too if you don't hang up the phone and walk your ass out of here pronto. And don't try to take that pencil case along because I'll be all over you like flies on shit before you reach the door. Vamoose, dirt bag!"

Rob had pulled his badge from his pocket and now he held it up over the sound baffle of his booth. He noticed that the grifter's face was pale as he hung up his receiver. The guy scanned the lobby and froze as his eyes fixed on the gold detective badge. He locked eyes with Rob for a second, then, without a word, hurried from the lobby. Rob strolled over to the confused mark.

"The money still in there, ma'am?"

She looked at him in bewilderment, then unzipped the case. A sheaf of hundred dollar bills sat cozily within.

"Good. Put it back in the bank and leave it there. And next time don't be so trusting."

Rob lit another cigarette and returned to his station by the front entrance. He checked his watch. Kara was late. Normally he didn't mind waiting. He was used to it. Waiting was an integral part of the job for a NYPD detective. He'd spent entire shifts and more sitting in a cold, cramped car with his eyes trained on a single doorway. This morning he was warm and comfortable. Why should he be antsy?

She fooled him. Rob had expected her to arrive by cab, so he hadn't been paying much attention to the sidewalk. He was surprised when he spotted her half a block away, walking down from Thirty-first. He picked up the blond hair first, then the easy, long-legged gait. Kara had never learned to walk like a New Yorker.