insome way. The room looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had diedten years before; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything elsehad not only the appearance of age, but the look of having been castup as a high-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left onlythe tangled wreckage.
The woman cleared her throat, and Malone's gaze came back to her. "Ican tell you nothing," she said.
"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk toMike."
Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk toMike. You make a joke. Only I don't think the joke is very funny."
"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?"
Her gaze never wavered. "You know he is not," she said. "Ten minutesago the policemen were taking him away to the police station. How thencould he be here?"
"Ten minutes ago?" Malone blinked. Ten minutes ago he had been lookingfor this apartment. Probably it hadn't taken Lynch's men ten minutesto find it; they weren't strangers in New York. "He was arrested?"Malone said.
"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or elsesomething." Her eyes were still cold points, but Malone suddenly saw aglow behind them, the glow of tears. Mike was her son. She did notseem surprised that the police had taken him away, but she wasdetermined to protect him. He was her son.
Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said.
The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?" shesaid.
"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI. I don't know anythingabout why the cops might have arrested Mike."
"FBI?" the woman said.
"It's all right," Malone said, with all the assurance he could muster."I only want to talk to him."
"Ah," the woman said. Tears were plain in her eyes now, glittering onthe surface. "Why they take him away, I do not know. My Mike donothing. Nothing."
"But didn't they say anything about--"
"They say?" the woman cried. "They say only they have orders from thisLieutenant Lynch. He is lieutenant at police station."
"I know," Malone said gently.
"Lieutenant Lynch wants to ask Mike questions, so police come, takehim away." Her English was beginning to lose ground as the tears camecloser, as she slowly lost control.
"Lynch asked for him?" Malone said. He frowned. Whatever that meant,he wanted to be there himself. And perhaps he could help the old womanin some way. Anyhow, he would try. She stared up at him stonily."Look, Mrs. Fueyo," he said. "I'm going down there to talk to Mikeright now. And if he hasn't done anything, I'll see that he gets righton home to you. Right away."
Her expression changed a trifle. She did not actually soften, butMalone could feel the gratitude lurking behind her eyes as if it wereafraid to come out. She nodded gravely and said nothing at all. Hestepped away, and she closed the door without a sound.
He stood staring at the door for a few seconds. Then he turned andpunched the elevator button savagely.
There wasn't any time to lose.
He walked back to the precinct station. Knowing the way, it took himabout five minutes instead of the fifteen it had taken him to find theFueyo residence. But he still felt as if time were passing much toofast. He ran up the steps and passed right by the desk sergeant, whoapparently recognized him; he said nothing as Malone charged up thestairs and around the hall to Lynch's office.
It was empty.
Malone stared at it and started down the hall again without knowingwhere he was heading. Halfway to the stairs he met a patrolman.
"Where's Lynch?" he asked.
"The lieutenant?" the patrolman said.
Malone fumed. "Who else?" he said. "Where is he?"
"Got some kid back in the tank, or somewhere," the patrolman said."Asking him a couple of questions, that's all." He added, "Hey,listen, buddy, what do you want to see the lieutenant for? I mean, youcan't just go charging in to--"
Malone was down the stairs before he'd finished. He went, up to thedesk.
The desk sergeant looked down. "What's it this time?" he said. "Atrack meet?"
"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to seeLieutenant Lynch."
The desk sergeant nodded. "Okay," he said. "But the lieutenant ain'tin any of the cells. He's back in Interrogation with some kid."
"Take me there," Malone said.
"I'll show you, anyway," the sergeant said. "Can't leave the desk onduty." He cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions thattook him around to the back of the station. He was repeating thedirections when Malone left.
There was a door at the end of a corridor at the back of the station.It was a plain wooden door with the numeral _1_ stenciled on it.Malone opened it and looked inside.
He was staring into a rather small, rather plain little room. Therewere absolutely no bright beam lights burning, and there didn't seemto be any rubber hoses around anywhere. There were only four chairs.
Seated in three of the chairs were Lieutenant Lynch and two otherpolice officers. In the fourth chair, facing them, was a young boy.
He didn't look like a tough kid. He had wavy black hair, brown eyes,and what Malone thought looked like a generally friendly appearance.He was slight and wiry, not over five feet five or six. And he wore anexpression that was neither too eager nor hostile. It wasn't justblank, either; Malone finally pinned it down as receptive.
He had the strangest impression that he had seen the boy somewherebefore. But he couldn't remember when or where.
Lieutenant Lynch was talking.
"...all we want, Mike, is a little information. We thought you'd beable to help us, if you wanted to. Now, how about it?"
"Sure," Mike Fueyo said. His voice was a little high, but it was wellcontrolled and responsive. "Sure, Lieutenant. I'll help if I can, butI just don't dig what you're giving me. It doesn't make sense."
Lynch stirred a little impatiently, and his voice began to carry a newbite. "I'm talking about Cadillacs," he said. "Red Cadillacs, 1972models."
"It's a nice car," Mike said.
"What do you know about them?" Lynch said.
"Know about them?" Mike said. "I know they're nice cars. That's aboutit. What else am I going to know, Lieutenant? Maybe you think I ownone of these big red 1972 Caddies. Maybe you think I got that kind ofmoney. Well, listen, Lieutenant. I'd like to help you out, but I'mjust not--"
"The Cadillacs," Lynch said, "were--"
"Just a minute, Lieutenant," Malone said. Dead silence fell with greatsuddenness. Lynch and all the others looked around at Malone, whosmiled apologetically. "I don't want to disturb anything," he said."But I would like to talk to Mike here for a little while."
"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure."
"I'd like to ask him a couple of questions," Malone said. "Alone."
"Alone." Lynch said. "Oh." But there was nothing for him to do, Maloneknew, except bow to the inevitable. "Of course," he said. "Go rightahead."
"You can stand outside the door," Malone said. "He won't get away. Andyou'd better hold this." Malone, knowing perfectly well that stayingarmed and alone in a room with a suspect was something you just didnot do, unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to the lieutenant.
He left reluctantly with his men. The door closed.
Malone could understand Lynch's attitude. If Malone solved the case,Lynch would not get any credit. Otherwise, it might go down in hispersonal record. And of course the NYPD would rather wrap the case upthemselves; the FBI was treated as a necessary interference.Unfortunately, Malone thought, Lynch had had absolutely no choice. Hesighed gently, and turned his attention to Mike Fueyo, who was stillsitting in his chair.
"Now, Mike--" he began, and was interrupted.
The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said, "If you need us, Malone, justyell."
"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut.
He turned back to the boy. "Now, Mike," he began again. "My name isMalone, and I'm with the FBI in Washington. I'd like to ask yo
u afew--"
"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here. I'mreally glad about that."
Malone said, "Well, I--"
"These cops here have been giving me a pretty rough deal, you know?"Mike said.
"I'm sure they--"