The little guy came out of the driver’s window, holding an impossibly large pistol equipped with a silencer. He popped off one shot, which shattered the window of a blue-and-white, then a returning fusillade knocked him back inside the van.

Four cops approached the van warily now, three pistols out in front, another with a riot gun. They hesitated, then the bearer of the shotgun crept around the front of the van and peered in through the windshield. The shotgun went off, and Stone made it around the van in time to see the cop reach into the cab through the hole he had blown open and remove Scoop Berman’s pistol.

The cop used the butt of the shotgun to clean out a larger area of the windshield, and with help, pulled Scoop out of the van onto the pavement.

“You the cabdriver?” a cop asked Stone as they crowded around Scoop.

“No, the passenger. The driver’s in the front seat, there, missing most of his head.”

“Well, we finally got the fucker,” another cop said. “That’s cabbie number six he’s offed. We’ll get a fucking commendation for this one.” He pulled out his notebook. “Let’s have your name,” he said to Stone, “and we’ll want a statement from you.”

“My name’s Barrington. I was fourteen years on the job, detective second, most recently out of the 19th.”

“I know you,” another cop said. “You were Dino Bacchetti’s partner.”

“Right.”

“Let him write out his own statement,” the cop said to his colleague. “He’ll do it better than you.”

“I know this guy,” Stone said, nodding at Scoop. “His name’s Berman; he’s a free-lance television cameraman. You want me to talk to him?”

“Yeah,” said the cop. “If you know him.”

Stone went and knelt over Berman. “Scoop, how are you feeling? An ambulance is on the way.”

Scoop was gutshot, twice, and there was blood around his lips. His eyes focused. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I thought you was out to pasture.”

“I was, buddy, but I was in the cab.”

Scoop looked worried. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “You okay?”

“I’m okay. Scoop, did you shoot the other cabdrivers?”

“Yeah, the bastards always got in my way when I was on a story. Other cars would get out of the way, you know? But not hacks, the sons of bitches.”

Stone turned to a cop, who had a notebook out. “You get that?”

“Yeah,” the cop said. “You know, I wanted to shoot a few cabbies myself, at times.”

“Stone,” Scoop said.

“Yeah, Scoop?”

“There’s something I never told you. I shouldda told you, but I didn’t. I wanted it for myself.”

“What’s that, Scoop?” He could hear the ambulance approaching.

“The night Sasha took her dive, remember?”

“You bet I remember.”

“I was there, remember?”

“I remember. You got her on tape. It was a good job.”