It was nearing evening when Joanna finally reached Central Park in the Bronx. Sitting happily on a bench in a side alley, Beckett stretched her tired legs with pleasure.

Needless to say, this Friday had turned out to be an eventful Friday. For the first half of the day, Beckett had a long conversation with the defendant, full of complexities, frank misunderstandings, and even a persistent lack of understanding mixed with distrust. After lunch, the district attorney was waiting for her. Toward the end of the day, Beckett had time to hold a small seminar with the colleagues on her errands. And it took a lot of time to get through it all.

From the beginning, as soon as Joanna took on the case, she knew that securing Pulgatti's release would not be easy. When cops are involved, it gets pretty slippery and nerve-racking, to say the least. Moreover, a meticulous examination of the available material revealed so many inconsistencies, incongruities, and outright falsifications that she had to double-check everything. There was no room for error, and since conscientiousness and meticulousness are a Beckett family trait, Joanna could not end her workday inconclusively, just like that.

Opening her briefcase, Beckett pulled out several pieces of paper and thoughtfully reviewed each one, disregarding the scurrying people and the usual city noise. The first thing to do was to check the statements of the cops who'd shown up, because something didn't add up in the chronology of events. In order to question the cops I had to ask permission from Captain Burroughs.

Detective Raglan was first in line, but Joanna was unsuccessful from the get-go. She was rudely interrupted as she approached the policeman, greedily devouring doughnuts in the small café next door to the precinct. Full of blatant hostility, Raglan threw an unfinished cup of coffee on the table and, cursing floridly, hurried away.

Beckett did not catch up with him, realizing that the conversation would not work. So she would have to leave Raglan for later, but in the meantime she should meet his partner, Gary McCallister. Perhaps he would be more cooperative. People in the know suggested a visit to the Copland Bar, lost somewhere in the heart of the Bronx, which she could only get to now.

Putting her papers in her briefcase, Beckett crossed an avenue humming with Friday night merriment and dug into a small alley. The entrance to the place was in the basement of a corner house, and from the sidewalk a colorful neon sign in the shape of a police badge with the name of the place across its width was clearly visible.

After counting the metal-cornered wooden steps with her feet, Joanna pushed the heavy front door open with an effort. As she entered, she immediately smelled in her face the characteristic mixture of wine breath, tobacco smoke, and strong coffee. Even through the fine mesh curtain hanging in the vestibule opening, a small and semi-darkened lounge, in which the main visitors were cops, was clearly visible. Uniformed and ununiformed, young and old, male and female, they gathered in close and friendly company.

Pulling back the curtain, Joanna stepped confidently inside and looked around with interest. All the walls of the room and the surface of the columns were decorated with appropriate police paraphernalia: empty pistol magazines, discarded body armor, battered batons, pounded helmets with and without visors, worn dog tags, even police dog collars with tags, but the centerpiece behind the bartender was a huge, floor-to-ceiling plywood panel, hung with photographs.

There were innumerable of them. Some were yellowed by time and tobacco smoke, while others, more recent, stood out against the general ashy-yellow background with their fresh colors and size. Sometimes they were artistically framed personal photographs that made a direct statement about their owner's passing into the next world.

And it was all run by a broad-shouldered bartender. Absolutely bald as a billiard ball, he wore a curly red beard, and all he lacked to resemble a famous pirate was an eye patch, a parrot on his shoulder, and a triangle hat. By the way, he had a pipe.

The bartender was lazily flipping it in his mouth, from corner to corner, with a wary smile, chuckling hoarsely at the stupid jokes of the drunken regulars, and probably wasn't surprised at anything in his life anymore. Except for one thing.

Popping out from under the counter with a bottle of Johnny Walker, he stared in surprise at the skinny woman perched on the bar stool. He skeptically assessed the austere and businesslike appearance of the visitor, roughly puffed tobacco smoke in her face, as if checking: will this bimbo escape from here or not? To be sure, he grinned ungraciously, showing a set of gilded teeth.

- What'll it be, ma'am? - His voice sounded like an unlubricated wheel. - I'm sorry, but our selection is either beer or whiskey. Wine is not in demand.

To the barman's surprise the woman stoically endured the blatant rudeness, only patiently wrinkled her nose.

- Whisky, please! - Beckett proudly threw up her head, placing a brown briefcase on the bar. - And may I ask you a few questions?

- Not before you make a modest donation," grinned the barman maliciously, "how many drops do you want? Two, three, none?

He obviously didn't like the customer, and he wasn't going to hide it. Such cleaners had no place in a place where people risked their lives. After all, they had their own things to talk about, and not all of them pleasant ones.

- Pour half of it! - With a little chuckle Beckett slammed the bill in her hand on the counter. - And no soda, please!

There was undisguised interest in the bartender's eyes.

"And the lady, it turns out, has a temper! Such people choose professions that sometimes don't go with their looks. Then why is she here?"

He placed the glass in front of his visitor, folded his arms across his chest and nodded approvingly as she dashingly, manfully, tipped the amber liquid into herself and, sucking on an ice cube, spat it back out like a cherry pit.

- Well, can we talk now?

- Yes, what are you interested in?

- I'm looking for a man named Gary McCallister. You wouldn't happen to know him, would you?

The bartender let out a thick puff of smoke and grimaced as if he had a toothache:

- I know him. He's a nasty, moody fellow. Comes to my place two or three times a month, on Fridays or Saturdays. Takes a bottle of whiskey, a couple of sausages on skewers, and sits in his regular seat. Sometimes he'd have another mister with him, pure primate in appearance," the bartender grinned maliciously. - McCallister never speaks to anybody else, and his tips are very scanty. Look for him there! - The bartender pointed a meaty finger to the farthest corner of the room. - Furthest booth, where the bulletproof vest hangs. You're a tough one, miss! - He flattered him deservedly.

- Yes, I am," Joanna grimaced from the tobacco smoke, but quickly took on a businesslike appearance, "thank you!

- Come in again!

With a shake of her head, Beckett made her way to the booth in question, ignoring the prying eyes of those present. After all, she was here on business, and it was better to keep quiet about it. Cops don't like lawyers.

"I think it's here!" - Joanna resolutely pushed back the dark blue, thick curtain, excused herself, and stepped inside, but the man cradling a glass of whiskey didn't even say hello.

McCallister turned out to be a sturdy-looking tough guy. Taking a large sip, he studiously nibbled on the last skewer, paying no attention to anything else. When the woman hummed, drawing attention to herself, he looked up at her, his eyes clear gray and drunkenly complacent.

- What do you want? - Gary grinned contemptuously with his chiseled mouth. - Where did you come from, the I.R.S., the bank, or the real-estate office?

- Neither," Joanna smiled kindly, placing her briefcase to her left. - I have a very important business to attend to.

- My urgent business occupies another half-bottle," McCallister poured the whisky into a glass and placed the vessel directly in front of him, as if intending to ward off this neat lady who came out of nowhere. It was unlikely she'd come to the bar just for the love of cops. The fact that his actions seemed, at the very least, impolite didn't bother McCallister at all. True, Beckett was no shyster. She calmly pushed the bottle to the edge of the table and raised her right eyebrow nonchalantly. Gary even managed to notice the calm, bewitching smile on her face. It looked like the lady was very determined.

- I'm not going to brighten up your foggy loneliness for long, Mr. McCallister," Joanna said confidently, keeping her eyes on his frowning face. - The Russians have an apt expression, 'brevity is the sister of talent,' and therefore, with Captain Burroughs' permission, let me ask you a few questions," she nodded trustingly, anticipating an objection.

Suspecting a catch, Gary smiled tautly. It was no accident that the pretty ma'am had come here!

- My name is Joanna Beckett, and I represent Mr. Pulgatti," she explained politely, noticing a mute question in Gary's eyes. With her hands clasped in front of her, she held herself very confidently. A kind of Miss Equanimity in the mud. - You know him?

- Ah-ah-ah, that bastard? - McCallister squinted his eye unpleasantly. He pushed back his empty plate, picked his nail indecently in his teeth, and kneaded the paper napkin in his palms. - Pulgatti doesn't deserve any leniency, and you'll get yourself into a lot of trouble if you get bogged down in an outright failure.

- I'll take any case where injustice prevails," Joanna shifted her eyebrows. - Would you like to tell me more about the other night? There are a great many inconsistencies in the case, and your reports are not very revealing.

- I have nothing to tell you and nothing to hide," and he leaned back in his chair and shook his head stubbornly. - I have set out all the circumstances of what happened. The transcript of the interrogation corresponds to the truth, too.

- So nothing at all? Your secrecy does you no credit! - Beckett moved her eyes incredulously and figuratively. - Oh, then please tell me, why did you arrive at the scene of the crime only ten minutes after you were summoned? If your way had started from the border of the patrol area, it would have taken you at least twenty minutes to get there, and even then, in the absence of traffic, which at this hour is almost always there. What do you think of my lay-out, huh?

- Empty, it accomplishes nothing. Actually, I rushed to the rescue on the signal of an armed attack, and how to get to the scene of the crime is my own business! I know every passing yard in these neighborhoods!

- Sounds a little strange, because at first you were silent for a long and incomprehensible time, but only responded to the dispatcher when the address of the crime scene came on the air. This is perfectly corroborated by the relevant records. Not for nothing did I get the distinct impression that you knew exactly where you were going to be called.

McAllister's eyes flashed with a dangerous fire, and his cheekbones, already purple with alcohol, became even redder.

- Hey you, lady! - Gary growled, massaging his palms as if before he was about to hit the bar. - Have you ever been in the crossfire? Have you ever had to carry a wounded man on your back, knowing in advance he was going to die? Do you know what combat camaraderie is?

- Don't be cheap pathetics," Beckett wasn't the least bit embarrassed. - I don't know all the circumstances of the crime yet, but somehow I'm sure you're a liar, a brazen liar, and so I'll find a way to nail you to the wall. Believe me, I'm used to it.

- We shall see! - McCallister grimaced contemptuously. - I did my duty honestly, and you have nothing to reproach me for. You're nothing to me, ma'am, and I'm through talking to you.

- Why did you come so quickly? - She repeated, with a tangible pressure, and tossed back a strand of hair that had fallen out of her hair. She was desperate for a breath of fresh air. - The timing gave you away. Just got to get the facts together.

McCallister's clear gray eyes looked like leaden circles with anger. He slammed his hand loudly on the table, almost knocking over his plate of leftovers, and growled grudgingly:

- "I said it all! Get the hell out of here!

With a nonchalant shrug, Joanna got up from the table and left without saying good-bye. McCallister saw her off with an angry look, and with a rattle moved the table, staggered to the counter.

- I have to make a phone call! - he laid a few small coins in front of the bartender.

He brushed them carelessly under the counter with his paw and pulled out a phone on a long cord from somewhere underneath. Gary walked over to a nearby pillar and sat down, leaning back against it. He cast a wary glance around the merry-go-round, put the phone on his knee, and slowly dialed a number.

- Hey, it's me. We're in a lot of trouble.

- Trouble? What kind of trouble? - The invisible interlocutor ironically jumped. -How'd you get a skewer? What can I say, poor guy - again, you're out of luck! Well, just use whiskey on your finger and lick it right off. That'll do it!

Cursing to himself, Gary marked a forced smile. Not sharing his boss's inappropriate cheerfulness, he muttered softly into the phone:

- It's much worse than that. I had that bastard Pulgatti's lawyer.

- And that's all? - The chief yawned loudly. - There's no place to put a stamp on that fucking Joe, and that's why nobody would ever think of helping him!

The chief's ostensible complacency made him angry, and McCallister could barely keep from cursing.

- You don't understand me, Jess," he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tiredly. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the profuse sweat from his forehead. - I've got her; she's as tough and tenacious as a bulldog, and she's pretty sure our arrival on the scene was premature. She seems to have all the time points of the evening in her hands, and once they are reconciled we may be in a lot of trouble. Besides, if there was the slightest discrepancy, the bitch promised to tell the prosecutor.

- Seriously? - Jess was no longer joking, and Gary could distinctly hear him furiously scrubbing his unshaven cheek. It was a sure sign that Jessup was steadily becoming enraged, though it didn't show in any other way on his appearance. - If that was the case, he ought to scare the hen.

- Jess! I'd twist her head off right there! - roared fiercely McCallister, involuntarily winding the telephone cord around his fist. - You should have seen her neck!

- It'll do," Jessup summed up coldly, "work quietly and don't move a muscle. And tell your partner to keep his mouth shut or he'll probably shit in his pants when he sees her," Jesse laughed loudly, satisfied with the ribald joke.

- Yeah, I see," Gary swayed drunkenly, shifting from foot to foot. - I'm not going to try it with Raglan, so you're going to have to try it with me. Well, we'll see what happens, but in the meantime, let's tell that lawyer to go to hell.

- Don't be silly! - Jessup reminded me again. - She's just provoking you, scaring you. We've had more than one of those.