He continued: “But here's the gist of it. They checked out his military history. He hardly ever saw combat and once he was discharged never had anything to do with the military again. Was in theater all his life. No criminal record, no apparent contact with criminals. Attends church regularly. He —”

“But he still knows how —”

“Hey, hey, let me finish. They also checked out what an original play by an unknown playwright is worth. You're talking in the thousands, tops, unless a miracle happens and it takes off — like Cats or something like that. And that's a one-in-a-million chance. Believe me, nobody's going to risk a murder conviction for a couple of thousand dollars.”

“But the play... I saw he'd changed the name.”

“Sure he did. She was killed and he figured he'd steal them and make a little money. Her estate wouldn't even know about it. That's larceny. But who cares?” Healy looked into one of the hundred of boxes of dominoes that surrounded Rune. “So?”

“So?”

“You out of the detective business?”

“Totally and completely.”

“I'm really glad to hear that.”

“I have some information,” the young woman's voice said.

Sitting at his oak desk, Michael Schmidt held the phone receiver in one hand and with his other tapped on the unopened lid of the carton of clam chowder.

The voice, a woman's and disguised somehow, continued. “It links you to Shelly Lowe's death.”

He poked his finger listlessly against the cello packet of saltines until each cracker popped into crumbs. “Who is this?”

“I think it's information you'd be interested in.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“You'll meet me soon enough. If you're not afraid to.”

“What do you want? You want money? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

"Blackmail? It's funny you should mention that word.

Maybe I am. But I want to meet you in person. Face-to-face."

“Come to my office.”

“No way. Where there are plenty of people around.”

“Okay. Where?”

“Meet me at noon at Lincoln Center. You know the tables they have set up there?”

“The restaurant outside?”

“Yeah, there. Meet me there. And don't bring anybody with you. Got it?”

The line went dead.

Schmidt sat staring at the glossy black-and-gray phone for a full minute before he realized he was still holding the silent receiver. He hung it up angrily.

He felt like swearing, though he knew that if he did he'd immediately regret saying the cuss word. He was proud of the fact that he was both a tough, moneymaking businessman and a deeply religious man who abhorred the use of obscenities. With his thumb he continued to crush the crackers into dust.

His appetite for the soup was gone and he pitched it into his wastebasket. The lid came off and the soup spilled into the plastic bag lining the garbage can. The smell of fish and onions wafted up, which made him even more angry.