"It figures." Gibson sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "Fog's bad tonight," he commented.

"It's bad every night," Phillips said.

"Who's in charge?"

"Lt. Warnicke. He's inside, looking over the victims."

Captain Gibson grunted and ambled off toward the LE van. Phillips hesitated momentarily, then followed the veteran cop into the rolling medical center.

Warnicke was at the far end, in the DOA section, drinking coffee and talking with two white-clad medics. He was a tall, graceful man with a touch of silver at his temples and a deceptively mild set to his facial features.

The Lieutenant looked up with an expectant grimace as the new arrivals joined the clutch at DOA. "Don't you ever sleep, Barney?" he greeted the Captain.

"When I can," Gibson growled. He elbowed his way forward and helped himself to the coffee as Warnicke and Phillips exchanged grim smiles, then the Harbor boss demanded, "Okay, give me the score."

Warnicke stared thoughtfully into his cup and quietly replied, "Joe Fasco, Johnny Liano, Pete Trazini — all very dead, plus seven minor..."

The Captain interrupted the report with, "I had a talk with Fasco just last week. Told him I couldn't tolerate much more of this. Told him to clean his joint up or I'd close him down."

The two junior officers exbanged glances and Warnicke said, "Well it's clean now."

"Best way to beat the mob is just leave 'em alone, I guess," Gibson went on. "I been saying that for years. Leave 'em alone, they're their own worst enemies."

A medic grinned and commented, "I was just reading something along that line. A study of violent deaths by mobsters shows that most of them die at the hands of their own kind."