Gus sighed, folded his newspaper, tossed it on his bunk and joined the line of prisoners shuffling past his cell. It would make a nice change, having somebody to talk to over a meal. The line stopped moving while the barred door that led to the dining hall was opened. Gus heard a slight commotion behind him and started to turn to see what was happening. Before he could move he felt a searing pain in his back, near his spine. He managed to make half a turn, and he saw a small, wiry man he knew holding a bloody homemade shiv.

“Skinny?” he managed to say, before the man shoved the knife into his chest. His legs turned to water, and he hit the floor hard. Something warm and wet flowed past his cheek on the concrete floor. It got very noisy, then the sound went away.

Dierdre Monahan was in the chief deputy D.A.’s office when his phone rang and he picked it up. “It’s for you,” he said, handing her the receiver.

“Monahan,” she said. She listened to what the voice on the other end of the line was saying, and she felt herself turning white. She asked some questions, then hung up.

“Dierdre,” her boss said, “you look weird. You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“I hope not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Gus Castiglione is dead.”

“What?”

“He got knifed at Rikers.”

“Didn’t you put him into protective custody?”

“Yes, but for some reason his cell opened at lunch call, and he went to the dining hall, or at least he started out for the dining hall. Somebody put a shiv into him twice. They’ve got a suspect, a little rat named Skinny diSalvo, who’s awaiting trial on a gambling charge, but, of course, nobody saw anything.”

“I want an investigation of how that cell door got opened,” the chief said.

“Somebody got bought,” Dierdre replied, “and I don’t think we’re going to find out who.”

“You’ve still got that other witness, what’s his name?”

“Fisher, Herbert Fisher.”

“Is he in Rikers?”

“No, I’ve got him in a safe house, a hotel.”

“You’d better make sure nothing happens to him.”

“Right,” she said. “I have to go make some calls.”

Herbie had been in the hotel for nearly a whole day, now, and he didn’t like it. The bed was hard, the food from room service was lousy, the TV in the bedroom was too small, and the two cops who were always with him hogged the bigger one in the sitting room.

One of the cops opened the door. “You okay, Herbie?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Good idea,” the cop said. “I was gonna mention it to you.”

Herbie got out of his pajamas, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he started getting dressed.