Fifty-to-One

heel? He’s not. The man’s a killer, Borden. He’d think no more about snuffing you than he’d think about blowing his nose. He’s been convicted on fifteen federal racketeering charges and sentenced to three consecutive life terms. In principle, he can’t even set foot in the United States or he’ll be arrested on the spot.”

“You’re telling me this guy I’m supposed to be afraid of isn’t even in this country?”

“Actually, I’m not telling you that,” O’Malley said. “I’d have told you that for sure three weeks ago—he’s been living for years on a yacht he keeps just outside U.S. coastal waters, where we can’t touch him. Sails off for the open sea any time we come close. But that was before someone stole three million dollars from him.

“Word is, he’s come home. We don’t know when and we don’t know where, other than he’s somewhere in New York City. One of our sources says he was smuggled in in a pickle barrel. How do you like that? Another says he was brought in in the trunk of an automobile. Either way, it’s a lot of trouble and discomfort and risk for him to have gone to, and it can’t have put the man in a better mood. But he apparently felt it was worth it in order to find out who robbed him.”

O’Malley slapped his copy of I Robbed the Mob! on the newly righted desk, where it had no competition for the attention of everyone in the room.

“And who do you think he’s going to look to for the answer?”

Borden grimaced.

“The name, Borden. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman or a newborn baby, I want a name. I’ve been after this son of a bitch for seven years, this is the best chance we’ve had in all that time of getting him, and I’m not leaving here without a name.”

Tricia stepped forward. “I’ll give you her name.”

“Don’t, Trixie,” Borden said, but she ignored him.

“I’ll give you her name, if you tell me what you’re going to do with it.”

“Do with it? I’m gonna find her and—” O’Malley halted, checking whatever it was he’d been about to say. He licked his lips. When he spoke again, it was more slowly and quietly and carefully. “I’m going to talk to her, and find out what she knows and how she learned it. Then I’m going to, to, um, keep an eye on her—so Nicolazzo can’t get at her without our knowing about it. And then when he tries,” he said, heating up again, “I’m going to put him away for the rest of his miserable life!”

“And you won’t come after the woman who wrote this book,” Tricia said.

“Come after her? Only to give her a medal,” O’Malley said. “Anyone who helps us put Nicolazzo away deserves the key to the goddamn city. Excuse my French.”

“You won’t say she must’ve had something to do with the robbery,” Tricia said. “You won’t try to charge her with anything.”

O’Malley seemed to be struggling to restrain his impatience, or maybe it was his temper. “What do we care if someone robs a crook like Nicolazzo?” he said. “It’s dirty money to begin with. Let her have it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have it,” Tricia said.

“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then let someone else have it, I don’t care. Just as long as we get Nicolazzo.”

“You swear,” Tricia said.

“On my sainted mother’s grave,” O’Malley said. “Now, talk, lady.”

“All right,” Tricia said. She stiffened her spine and stood as straight as she could. “I wrote the book.”

“You did,” O’Malley said.

“That’s right,” Tricia said. “I did.”

“Well,” O’Malley said, slapping his cap back on his head, “that makes things easy. You’re under arrest, lady.”

“What?”

O’Malley whipped a pair of handcuffs off his belt with one hand and started drawing his service revolver from its holster with the other.

“But you said—” Tricia started.

“I don’t remember saying anything,” O’Malley said, or anyway he started to. He hadn’t quite gotten the whole thing out when the brass desk lamp in Erin’s hands collided with the back of his head.

8.

Kiss Her Goodbye

The big man sank to his knees and tipped forward, landing face-first on the carpet.

“Great,” Borden said. “That’s going to make us popular with the police.”

“How popular were you before?” Erin said.

Borden took Tricia by the arm. “What the hell were you thinking, Trixie? Did you really think he was going to let you walk out of here after you told him you wrote a book detailing a three million dollar robbery?”

“He said—”

“He said,” Borden scoffed. “If I said I’d step out that window and fly to Minnesota, would you buy tickets to see it?”

“No,” Tricia said, “but he’s a policeman and you’re a liar.”

“Well, kiddo, I think you’ve just had a valuable lesson in how honest New York’s Finest are.” Borden knelt beside O’Malley on the floor, yanked the man’s belt out of his pants and used it to bind his hands behind his back.

“Should we take his gun?” Erin said.

“Absolutely, that’s a great idea. Because we’re not in enough trouble as it is.” Borden looked around the dark little room. “I really liked this office, too.” Beneath him, O’Malley started groaning. His eyes were still closed, but how long would that last?

“Ladies, would you please wait for me outside in the hall?” Tricia and Erin stepped outside, shut the door behind them. Through the hole in the glass, Tricia saw Borden give O’Malley another clout with the heavy base of the lamp. O’Malley stopped groaning and lay still. A moment later, Borden joined them in the hallway.

“Is he dead?” Tricia asked.

“Just napping,” Borden said. “Though he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Erin—will you let Billy know what happened?” Erin nodded. “Tell him I’ll be working out of 902 till the heat’s off, assuming it ever is. Now, Trixie: I need you to explain to me how this made-up robbery of yours could somehow actually have happened.”

“I don’t know,” she said miserably.

“You’re telling me you didn’t steal three million dollars from the Sun,” Borden said.

“Would she still be living here if she had?” Erin said.

“I need to hear it from her,” Borden said. “Trixie, do you swear on your life—on your mother’s life—on my life, that you didn’t steal any money from the Sun?”

“Of course not,” Tricia said. “What do you take me for?”

“I didn’t take you for a novelist, and look how that turned out.”

“I’m not a thief,” Tricia said.

“All right, fine. If you didn’t steal the money, someone else did. And if it happened the way you described in the book, it means whoever did it must’ve read the book.”

“Thousands of people have read the book by now,” Erin said. “Probably tens of thousands.”

“Sure—by now. It’s on every newsstand in America now. But a month ago? That would have been a bit harder, considering it hadn’t been published yet. The question is, who could have read the book a month ago? Who had access to the manuscript?”

“The printer?” Erin said.

“Moe? Moe’s seventy years old and walks with a cane.”

“Any of the girls could have read it,” Tricia said. “They all saw me working on it, and I just kept it in a box under my bed. But I didn’t think any of them were interested—”

“Apparently one of them was,” Borden said. He crossed the hallway. “Maybe more than one.” He knocked briskly on the door to the chateau. “Everyone decent in there?” he called. “I’m coming in.”

“Just a minute,” a voice called back. It sounded like Rita.

“Come on, Charley,” Erin said. “You really think one of the girls could pull off a heist like that? Forget about climbing eleven stories and opening a safe—just picture one of them trying to lug three million dollars around. How