It wasn’t until the third or fourth iteration that I figured out they wanted a husband or sister or someone that they could turn me over to. I was exhausted, but I hadn’t lost my wits. I knew I wasn’t in shape to take on anyone who might be waiting for me, either at home or at Mrs. Polter’s. Normally at such a crisis I’d call Lotty, but I couldn’t do that tonight either. Anyway, she was staying with Max. I just kept mumbling Finchley’s name and dozing off.

It must have been close to four when one of the patrolmen shook my arm. “Up you get, honey. We found Terry Finchley for you.”

“She doesn’t have any shoes,” I heard one of the patrol crew say.

“She’s tough.” Finchley’s voice came from several miles away. “Her feet’ll take a few splinters without breaking.”

I stumbled behind the patrolman who’d awakened me. When we got to the gangway he turned and lifted me over the side and propped me up next to Finchley’s driver. I’m not used to being handled like a negligible load. It added a dimension of helplessness to my fatigue.

“She was carrying this; I don’t know if she has a license.” The sergeant handed my gun to Finchley.

“It needs cleaning,” I heard myself saying. “Cleaning and oiling. It’s been underwater, you see.”

“She needs a doctor and a hot bath, but she wouldn’t tell us who to call.” The sergeant was talking about me as if I were lying dead in the next room.

I patted myself under the blanket. They’d left the holster. My belt with its seven-hundred-dollar picklocks was gone though. I could just remember struggling free of it underwater, when I shed my jacket and kicked off my shoes, trying to lighten my load. My wallet was still in my back pocket. The cops could have picked it and found my address easily enough, but they were mostly concerned that I not throw myself back into the steamy waters of the Sanitary Canal.

“Want to talk about it, Warshawski? Klimczak from the water patrol says you insisted on seeing me. I got out of bed to meet you—I’m not going to be a happy cop if you clam up on me now.”

Finchley’s sharp tone brought me back to the bare Area One interrogation room. In his starched shirt and knife-point trouser creases he didn’t appear to have just tumbled out of bed. Rawlings, whom he’d called at some point in the proceedings, looked more the part in a rumpled T-shirt and jeans. His eyes were red and he seemed angry, or jumpy, or some combination of the two. I was having too much trouble staying awake to sort out the nuances behind their speech.