“Two hours after I saw you in the bank four days ago, three men came to the Howard Johnson’s and told me to forget about you and get out of town. I didn’t. This morning you met a man driving a black Lincoln Town Car at a secluded place off the road near Brunly. The man in the black Lincoln gave you a nylon duffel bag, then made advances on you which you refused. He struck you. The man left first and then you brought the duffel to the bank. The Lincoln Town Car is registered to the Lucerno Meat Company in lower Manhattan and was driven by a man I’ve identified as one Charlie DeLuca, son of Sal DeLuca, head of the DeLuca crime family. I went to the meat plant and observed one of the three men who had come to the Howard Johnson’s. His name is Joseph Putata. That links Putata to Charlie DeLuca. I didn’t see what was in the bag, but I’d bet it was money, and I’d bet you wash it for the DeLucas by running it through an account without reporting it to the IRS. I’d also bet that if I went to the cops with this, they’d be pleased as peaches to see me.”

Karen Shipley’s eyes got red and wet, and she sat down next to the cat with her hands in her lap. She said, “Oh, damn,” over and over.

I went into the kitchen, turned off the Jenn-Air so that the sauce wouldn’t burn, then drew a glass of water and brought it out to her. She sipped it.

I said, “The three guys gave you away. Where would you get three guys like that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would send anyone to do that. I didn’t mean for them to threaten you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been threatened before.”

“I’m not a bad person. I don’t like this.”

“I know. I saw the way it was with DeLuca.”

Karen Shipley wiped at her eyes, then got up and went to the big triple-glazed window and looked out at her son. Bounce. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.”

She looked back at me, surprised. “What do you mean? Haven’t you told Peter?”

“No.”

“And you haven’t told the police?”

“No.”

“But those men beat you up.”

I said, “I knew something was wrong and I wanted to find out what it was. Cops deal with the law. The law isn’t usually concerned with right and wrong. Ofttimes, there are very large differences.”

She shook her head as if I’d spoken Esperanto.

I said, “All you do is launder their money?”

“Yes.”

“Ever done any other crimes for them? Drugs, murder, stolen goods?”

Surprised again. “Of course not. What do you think I am?”

“An employee of the mafia.”