A TV was on. Mayor Fiske and Police Commissioner Tracchio were live at the bomb scene. “This is a horrible, vin-dictive tragedy,” the mayor was saying, having come straight off the first tee at Olympic. “Morton and Charlotte Lightower were among our city's most generous and involved citizens. They were also friends.”

“Don't forget contributors,” Cappy Thomas, Jacobi's part-ner, said.

“I want everyone to know that our police department is already vigorously pursuing concrete leads,” the mayor con-tinued. “I want to assure the people of this city that this is an isolated event.”

“X/L...” Warren Jacobi scratched his head. “Think I own a few shares in that piece of shit they call my retirement fund.”

“Me too,” said Cappy. “Which fund you in?”

“I think it's called Long-Term Growth, but whoever named it sure has a twisted sense of humor. Two years ago I had -”

“If you moguls have a moment,” I called. “It's Sunday and the markets are closed. We have three dead, a missing baby, and an entire town house burned to the ground in a possible bombing.”

“Definite bombing,” Steve Fiori, the department's press liaison, chimed in. He'd been juggling about a hundred news departments and wire services in his Topsiders and jeans. “Chief just got it confirmed from the Bomb Squad. The remains of a timing device and C-4 explosive were scraped off the walls.”

The news didn't exactly surprise us. But the realization that a bomb had gone off in our city, that we had murderers out there with C-4, that a six-month-old baby was still miss-ing, sent a numb quiet around the room.

“Shit,” Jacobi sighed theatrically, “there goes the after-noon.”

Chapter 11

“LIEUTENANT,” someone called from across the room,

“Chief Tracchio on the phone.”