Chapter 7 "DNKY"

Detective Doreau had argued vociferously with Inspector Hammer from the car into the precinct lobby, all the way up in the elevator, and then down the hallway. Actually, it wasn't much of an argument – she had railed away silently to herself, reciting all of the things she wanted to say to her partner – all while trailing along in silence.

Hammer hadn't spoken a word on the drive back to the precinct. Neither had she but, in her own defence, she had felt it best not to distract Hammer from the delicate task of guiding a fast moving, swerving police vehicle through San Francisco traffic – without lights or siren. Mostly, she had passed the time wishing that she had taken a taxi, rather than literally catching a ride with him.

That had taken quick thinking and even quicker action on her part. Norman's van was still parked and blocking her door when she came out. Hammer already had his door open and, of course, he wasn't holding it for her. He had jumped in, started the engine, and slammed the transmission into reverse without even a moment's hesitation. She had just enough time, while he was shifting from reverse into drive, to yank the passenger door open and jump inside before he gunned the engine again. Wild acceleration threw her against the seat back and slammed her door closed behind her. It had taken almost a full city block before she got seated properly and her seat belt secured. Somewhere along the way she had pulled a muscle in the back of her neck and now it was beginning to stiffen up.

Whatever was on Hammer's mind, he was pursuing it with single minded determination. A new class of rookie officers in the main lobby had parted before him, much like the Red Sea before Moses, except Hammer didn't need a staff, or even his magnum. The look in his eyes had been sufficient. Officer Daley had nearly been bowled over as Hammer bolted out between the still opening doors of the elevator. He slowed down only as he approached Mayjoy's station behind the booking desk.

Furtively, Hammer eyed Officer Mayjoy and, when he thought Mayjoy wasn't looking, grabbed a form from the counter. Mayjoy had obviously anticipated this, and instantly pushed a second form towards the Inspector.

"Hammer, you've already exceeded your monthly quota," Mayjoy informed him, firmly. "If you want more time in the interrogation rooms, Captain Trunk will have to approve your request."

Hammer tried to freeze Mayjoy with an icy stare. His profligate use of the interrogation rooms had caused friction with other officers until Mayjoy had instituted a reservation system. That didn't stop Hammer from pretending that this rule didn't apply to him any more than the others did, but Mayjoy seemed determined to hold his ground. Doreau heard Hammer start to sputter and cringed, involuntarily. It was moments like this when her partner was prone to firing his magnum into the ceiling until he got his way. Instead, Hammer grabbed the second form from Officer Mayjoy and began stalking toward the bullpen. Doreau saw no choice but to follow.

As soon as it had become clear that to her Hammer was headed straight to Captain Trunk's office, Doreau had to make a decision.

On the one hand, she was burning up with curiosity. Hammer had actually seen the murder victim and he had talked with Coroner Blates. Something he had seen or heard there must have convinced him that he had a suspect – or at least someone he needed to question. And he was in so much of a hurry to do it that he hadn't bothered to argue with Mayjoy but instead was headed directly to their superior, Captain Trunk.

On the other hand, it was more likely that this was another one of his wild hunches. In all probability, he was letting his imagination run wild … again … with little in the way of circumstances and even less in the way of facts to back him up.

How many times have I had to defend him, or make excuses for him? What if Trunk asks questions I can't answer, because I haven't even seen the victim? No, she decided, this time, he is on his own. Besides, my neck hurts, and I just want to sit down for a while.

Having made up her mind, she called after her partner, "Sledge, I need to make a phone call." She then turned to her desk, took off her jacket and slowly eased into her chair. She wasn't surprised that Hammer had apparently ignored her; he was, after all, nothing if not an equal opportunity ignorer. She didn't care. Tentatively, she turned her head, tilting it one way and then the other, trying to stretch the muscles and working the kink out before it became permanent. Hammer had, she saw, paused outside Trunk's door. Perhaps he was reconsidering?

Before she could even blink, she saw him push the door open, race inside, and let the door close behind him. Only moments later, she heard Trunk's voice, through the closed door and over the buzz in the bullpen. She tried to listen in, but except for the points where the Captain raised his voice – she made out the words "HAMMER", "CHIEF", "HANG" and "BAD" – everything else was just a dull drone. She congratulated herself on her earlier decision. It had not taken the Inspector long to set Trunk off, she noted, wondering in spite of herself exactly what Hammer had said. In all probability, she decided, he is on another one of his wild goose chases. Good solid police work, the kind she was used to doing, depended on going over all of the evidence carefully and not on chasing wild hunches.

What 'evidence' are we going over again? The voice in her head mocked her choice.

Inspector Hammer paused at the door to Captain Trunk's office. He was troubled by a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. Instinctively, his hand reached for his Magnum. His hand felt the familiar bulge beneath his jacket; he felt the familiar weight beneath his left shoulder pulled at him, and he found them both comforting. He dug into his pocket, searching, and found the luggage tag he taken from the crime scene. He had his amigo, and he had the evidence he planned to use to get Captain Trunk to agree to his request. What else did he need? Doreau?

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw Doreau, seated at her desk, performing some yoga exercise. He shrugged. If he was missing something else, it was clearly nothing important. Pushing the matter from his mind, he yanked open the door and barged in as usual.

"Captain," he got right to the point, "according to Mayjoy, I need your permission to use the interview room."

Across the room, Captain Trunk felt his heart stop momentarily. He was used to Hammer's interruptions. He wasn't used to Hammer asking his permission … for anything. Then, suddenly, he realized that the Chief of Police was still talking to him. Motioning emphatically at the telephone, he tried to simultaneously to indicate that Hammer should take a seat and wait. Hammer, always lousy at charades, looked increasingly confused by Trunk's gesturing. Finally Trunk was forced to give up.

"I'll have to get back to you, Chief. I've got a visitor." He spoke into the mouthpiece.

Trunk set the receiver into its cradle quickly, determined not to let the Chief have time to protest or, worse, discover who his visitor was. Trying to maintain a sense of calm he turned slowly at his desk to face Hammer. Then, in an instant, his face turned florid.

"HAMMER! Don't you EVER knock?

That's what I forgot, Hammer suddenly remembering.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but Captain Trunk, who knew better than to provide him with an opening, continued without pausing.

"Do you realize that I was on the phone with the CHIEF OF POLICE? MY boss! Because of you, I had to HANG UP on him, HAMMER. Do you know how that makes me look? BAD, Hammer. It makes me look BAD!"

Having said his piece, Captain Trunk then slumped into his chair with a resigned 'thump', placed his elbows on his desk, and dropped his head into his hands, pressing his fingers against his temples. His mind was racing. He knew he sounded like someone who was scolding an errant puppy, but at least his rant had allowed him time to release some of his inner tension. He knew that he needed at least a sense of calm, or he would face another migraine. He knew many things, but none of them seemed particularly useful in the present circumstances.

It's no use, he thought to himself. He never listens, he won't ever listen, and it's bad for my blood pressure. Maybe Doreau can help me figure out what is going on.

Trunk raised his head from his hands and looked up. Where is Doreau, anyway? Suddenly his mind was racing, again. Hammer is in my office alone, and asking for permission to do something. WHY?

"Hammer … why … are … you … here … alone? Haven't I told you to … never … come in here alone?"

Captain Trunk emphasized the word "never" as he tried to impress upon his subordinate that it had been more than just a polite request. As usual, Hammer misunderstood anyway.

"Captain, I don't need a chaperone," Hammer scoffed. "I'm in complete control. Watch."

Swiftly Hammer drew his magnum from under his jacket, spun it twice on an outstretched finger and just as swiftly, re-holstered it.

"See, not a single hole in your ceiling," he said, clearly pleased with the accomplishment.

"Not for YOU, Hammer, for ME!" Trunk thundered. Then he forced his voice to a lower volume. "If I ever have to shoot you, Hammer, I want a witness that it was self defense."

Trunk paused, trying to remember where his original train of thought had been heading.

"Now … where … is … your … partner?" He put all the emphasis he could into the final word.

"I just showed you, Sir," Hammer replied, clearly puzzled. He opened his jacket again, displaying his shoulder holster, with his amigo nestled inside. "This is the only partner I need", he said, letting his jacket fall closed again.

It's only a white lie, he thought, omitting the fact that the two of them weren't actually speaking to each other.

"I'm not interested in your imaginary friend, Hammer! Where is your real partner?"

Inspector Hammer's face looked even more confused.

Why would Captain Trunk think Gun is imaginary? Something must be affecting his short term memory. Maybe it's his blood pressure. Maybe if I fire a couple of rounds, it will refresh his memory.

Hammer was already reaching inside his jacket when Captain Trunk quickly interrupted.

"Leave that thing in its holster, Hammer! What I want to know is; where is Doreau, Hammer?"

First Norman and now Captain Trunk? Hammer shrugged. He had no idea why everyone was so interested in Doreau's location this morning, but it was beginning to annoy him.

"Where's Waldo?" He responded. "I left her outside. In the bullpen, Captain. She said something about a phone call, but if you need her, I think I can get her attention."

Again, Hammer moved as if to draw his magnum.

Trunk stared at Hammer with a look of utter exasperation. It felt like he had fallen into a time warp, taking him forward about four years.

"HAAAAMMMMER! Don't even think it, Hammer!" Captain Trunk delivered the words with a low hiss that froze Hammer in mid-motion. "Detective Doreau is your partner, Hammer," he continued. "I expect the two of you to be working together."

Captain Trunk was careful to speak slowly, enunciate clearly, and emphasise the key words in his message, hoping that this time it would sink in. He watched Hammer carefully, looking for some sign or reaction as he spoke the words 'partner', 'two of you' and 'working together'. Hammer showed no reaction at all; he did not blink or twitch or give any sign of being distracted from his purpose – although what that purpose was, exactly, remained a mystery. Trunk gave up, for the time being, and simply got straight to the point, with absolutely no further wasted time.

"NOWWHEREISSHE?"

Trunk could feel the veins in his temples beginning to throb. He held his breath and began counting to ten.

Hammer took the silence as a request for him to explain. He stepped over to the windows facing the bullpen.

"Out there, Sir." Hammer replied, this time lifting the blind for Trunk to have a clearer view of the bullpen area and Doreau's desk. "See? She's at her desk, Captain, just like I said." Hammer let the blind drop back into place. He shrugged, wondering, why is Trunk having so much trouble remembering things?

"She said she needed to make a few phone calls. Probably gossiping with her girlfriends about her latest hairdo. You know what that's like, Sir. Once a woman gets on the phone; well, it's like a congressional filibuster."

Hammer started off almost pleading for understanding, and but was showing signs of increasing agitation.

"I needed to talk with you now, not after the next elections," he finished, eyes spinning wildly.

Although Hammer had paused, he gave every indication that he could go on like this indefinitely. There was no escaping. Trunk realized was going to have to deal with Hammer if he wanted to get to the bottom of this, or even just to spare himself a half hour tirade on feminine foibles. He knew his face was turning blue. He gave up counting at eight.

"WHAT IS IT," he yelled, before forcing his voice down to a more normal tone, "Hammer?"

The rhythm of the blood in his temples was now a steady drumbeat.

"Captain, you really need to get your blood pressure checked. That vein is really jumping. I mean it's just, really, like popping, sir." Hammer gestured with his hand. "I'd get that looked at … before it …" He grimaced and made an exploding gesture with his hand.

Another thought occurred to him. Maybe the Captain just needed to relax a bit. "I can recommend a really good massage therapist. She got all the tension out of my trigger finger after it cramped up while I was celebrating the big rally for justice last week"

Curiosity not only killed cats, it could distract a police Captain as well.

"Rally for justice? What are you talking about, Hammer?" Trunk knew the conversation had just taken a detour, but the situation seemed beyond his control.

"You must have seen it Captain. Hundreds of people marching on city hall? Waving signs and demanding tougher sentencing for criminals. And they say there's nothing good on the news."

Trunk thought back, trying to remember the last protest march at city hall. He couldn't think of anyone demanding longer jail sentences.

"Hammer, are you referring to the pro-life march last week? That wasn't about …"

Captain Trunk caught himself. He couldn't possibly win. He probably couldn't hope for a tie either. He certainly wasn't making any progress in finding the cause of Hammer's behaviour this morning. He wasn't any closer to understanding why Hammer was in his office, either. He tried to bring the conversation back to that point.

"Why are you in my office, Hammer?"

"Did you want to talk in the hallway?" Hammer asked in a puzzled tone, The Captain's questions were increasingly confusing.

All I wanted was Trunk's signature on a form. Why is the Captain being so difficult?

Captain Trunk's head slumped to his desk top. He wished Hammer would come to the point. A point. Any point. To his surprise, his silent plea was answered.

Hammer saw Trunk's head fall to the desk and finally understood. The Captain was suffering sleep deprivation! That explains his irrational behaviour. Maybe if I hurry, I can get out before he nods off.

"Look, Captain," Hammer said, trying to hurry. "Mayjoy says I've gone over my monthly interrogation room quota, and I need your permission to book more time." Hammer unfolded the paper he was holding and slid an official looking form onto his superior's desk. "So, if you just sign here," Hammer helpfully indicated an obvious space at the bottom of the page, "Then I can get back to work and you can quit stalling the Chief."

"Hammer, I am not stalling the Chief of Police. You interrupted, while I was trying giving him a report." Captain Trunk started to sign the requisition, and then paused. "Do you have anything to report, Hammer?"

"About what?" Hammer asked, innocently.

"About the homicide case I assigned you to this morning!"

"Oh, that case." Hammer's attention was focused on the document that Trunk had almost, but not quite, signed for him.

Captain Trunk waited. When it became obvious that Inspector Hammer was disinclined to further elaboration, Trunk decided to press the issue.

"Do you and Doreau have any leads?"

That startled Hammer from his reverie.

"Yes. Even better, Captain, I've got a suspect. Well, I would if could your signature. You see, Captain, that's why I need the interview room. Give me a few minutes to introduce him to my circus act and he'll sing like a canary."

"A suspect, Hammer? A confession? Hammer, are you actually telling me that you … and Doreau … have found enough evidence to arrest someone? Already?"

The Captain looked again at the document he was about to sign. As he waited, he slowly realized how ridiculous that all sounded. A suspicion had begun to form in Captain Trunk's mind. The suspicion became a certainty. And this, the Captain thought, is how the migraines start.

Captain Trunk had a sudden flash of understanding. Hammer had not yet confirmed it, but Trunk suspected the truth. He was certain that Hammer was working on another one of his hunches. He was certain that Hammer's 'evidence' would likely prove to be flimsy and circumstantial. All of that was completely normal. Inspector Hammer acted like this all of the time. What was unusual, what he didn't understand, was why Doreau had let him come in here alone, with nothing more than this. She never did that. More often than not, she went out of her way to make excuses for him, almost as if she was protecting him. Today, she was talking on the phone, apparently unconcerned, while her partner was in here, throwing himself under a bus. Trunk had no idea why. He wondered if Hammer did. It dawned on him that this might be a unique opportunity to quiz Hammer without his partner in the room. But I have to keep Hammer from realizing what is going on …

"Hammer, does Doreau know why you're in here?"

He could immediately see that he had taken Hammer unawares. He pressed the advantage.

"She doesn't know, does she, Hammer?

Hammer was surprised. He had expected Trunk to object to using the circus act. In fact, he threw it in so the Captain could refuse that part of his request. He didn't really need it, after all. He also thought that Trunk might question his evidence. He expected Trunk to protest vigorously when got to the part about Don Key, but he hadn't even gotten that far yet. Why was Trunk more interested in Doreau than the murder?

"Of course she knows I'm here. She was right there when I got these forms from Mayjoy. She insisted she had to make a phone call."

It was Captain Trunk's turn to be surprised. Inspector Hammer's response reinforced his worst fears. Detective Doreau had deliberately let Hammer in here alone. Either Hammer's request was simply so nutty that she wanted no part of it, or he had firm evidence that Doreau was willing to let her partner hang himself in public.

Hammer, this is entirely your idea isn't it? Doreau doesn't like it, does she? And, I'm not going to like it either, am I?"

Before he had even finished, Trunk had his right hand raised, to cover his eyes as he squeezed them shut, a physical manifestation of his desire to shut out the unreality of the situation. Knowing he didn't want to know, he asked anyway.

"Who is it Hammer? Which of San Francisco's 800,000 citizens have you randomly selected to drag downtown and harass this time?"

"Don Key."

Captain Trunk froze. Suddenly, he was fully alert. Don Key was easily the most notorious crime boss on the entire western seaboard. The FBI, IRS, ICE, ATF, DHS and the SFPD – exactly half of the alphabet – all of them thought he was some sort of ass and had tried to pin something on him, but to no avail. If Doreau had any inkling what Hammer intended to do, it was no wonder she wanted nothing to do with his plans. It was finally starting to make sense.

But, it could be a real feather in someone's cap if they succeeded.

Captain Trunk knew it was unlikely that Hammer was that someone who, in less than an hour, had done what everyone before him had failed to do, but he couldn't help himself. If there is the slightest chance, he thought, reluctantly deciding to let Hammer continue.

"OK, Hammer, I'm listening. What evidence do you have?"

In response, Hammer withdrew the luggage tag from his jacket pocket, tossing it onto Trunk's desk. It landed face up. Captain Trunk studied the tag, reading it out loud.

"Vincent Luigi, 380 Gough Street, San Francisco, California. HAMMER, what does this have to do with Don Key?"

Hammer actually seemed flustered. "It's on the other side. If you flip it over … to the other side. Captain, just …". Hammer's impatience grew; he made a flipping motion with his hand, and then reached for the tag to do it himself. Trunk waited for the moment, finding that he was actually enjoying Hammer's discomfort, and then grabbed the tag first, leaving Hammer sprawled across the top of his desk. Turning the tag in his hand, he examined the back carefully. He had to look closely before finally discerning the faint outline of four letters, apparently identifying the designer.

Captain Trunk frowned. "DNKY"? Something wasn't right. He had to repeat the letters to himself, silently, several times before realizing that some of them were out of sequence.

"Do you have any idea how many dyslexic people live in San Francisco? And you want to arrest someone over a simple misspelling?"

"It's insensitive of you to make blonde jokes, Captain. And, I don't think Tori had anything to do with this, Captain." He paused, his face showing obvious confusion and then, suddenly, misunderstanding. "Oh, I see. You said misspelling, not Miss Spelling. Anyway, it's neither of them Captain, it's a simple code. See, if you leave out the vowels …"

Hammer grabbed a pen and paper from Captain Trunk's desk and demonstrated, writing the name "DON KEY" before crossing out the "O" and the "E", leaving the letters "DNKY". Triumphantly, he pushed the paper in Captain Trunk's direction.

"See, Captain, that's how I know he's behind this. Now, if you'll just sign here, I can bring him in. I'll beat a confession out of him. That is, I'll get his confession and beat Doreau. What I meant to say was, I'll have his confession before she gets off the phone. That kind of "beat" not the … other … kind."

Trunk waited for Hammer to finish before asking. "Hammer! Are you familiar with the name 'Donna Karan'?"

Hammer's face went blank again. "Donna Karan?" He repeated, quizzically. "Donna …". Hammer snapped his fingers in sudden realization. "The Don's wife? Of course! You think I should arrest her, too? Brilliant thinking, Captain. You know, Sir, we don't respect your investigative skills nearly enough." As he spoke, the excitement in Inspector Hammer's voice increased with every word. His eyes lit up with anticipation.

Two sleaze-ball scum-suckers. Why didn't I see it myself? Double the fun and one for each of us. Gun would definitely want in on this!

Captain Trunk felt overcome by weariness. Only Hammer could make this sort of random connection.

"No, Hammer!" He spoke softly, but frustration in his voice was clear. "Donna Karan is a New York fashion designer. Her label is DKNY®. Just like this one, with a couple of letters exchanged." Captain Trunk held the luggage tag at arm's length, pushing it toward Hammer as though willing him to see. "This …", the Captain shook the tag for emphasis, "this is a fake label. I'll bet you got it from some cheap knock off merchandise."

Doreau would almost certainly have known that. Either she didn't know about this tag or she really was letting Hammer take the fall for it alone? He would figure out which later, he vowed.

"So, I should bring them in for counterfeiting, too?" Hammer asked hopefully, trying to retrieve the tag from Trunk.

"Have you got any evidence for that charge, Hammer?"

"Well, you just said it was from a cheap knock off, Captain. That is counterfeiting, isn't it?" Hammer replied, wondering again about the Captain's short term memory.

"Hammer, you are wasting my time. Do you have anything else? Fingerprints?"

"Uh – no …"

"What about witnesses?"

"None. Except for the victim, that is. But I suspect he's a dead end."

"Any sort of forensics?"

"Norman was still processing the scene when I left."

"What does Doreau think?"

"Captain, Doreau's a woman. Look, are you actually asking me if I know what a woman is thinking?"

For the first time during the discussion, Trunk conceded that Hammer had a valid point. Just not one that would justify bringing someone as well connected as Don Key in for questioning.

"Hammer! You have no evidence. Noth-ing." He emphasised each syllable. "Without evidence I can't get you a warrant. And without a warrant, you have no authority to bring Don Key in. It's a violation of his civil rights, and it's against Department policy. So don't do it. Am I making myself clear, Hammer?"

Trunk held up his hand as it appeared as though Hammer was going to speak again. Anticipating his next request, Trunk continued. "Hammer, I forbid you to arrest Don Key. I forbid you to arrest his wife. I forbid you to arrest his girl fiend, or any other friends he has. Now, GET OUT HAMMER. Take this and GET OUT of my office!"

Trunk rose from his chair and pressed the unsigned requisition along with counterfeit luggage tag firmly into Inspector Hammer's chest. He glared at Hammer until finally, reluctantly, Hammer began to retreat from Trunk's office.

"Could I just say …?" Hammer began.

Captain Trunk began to press harder, physically forcing Hammer to back up, step by step, until he was outside Trunk's office.

"No! Get out! Come back when you and Doreau have something concrete." Then, as an afterthought, "Concrete evidence, Hammer, not some broken piece of sidewalk! Now, go home and shave, Hammer! You look like you belong on Miami Vice, not in my Precinct!"

As the Captain slammed his office door for emphasis, Hammer tossed the useless requisition into a waste basket and tucked the luggage tag back into a jacket pocket. As he did so, he reflected that the result of his request was not been a total disappointment. Captain Trunk had not told him he couldn't question Don Key, only that he couldn't bring him in, and he couldn't have the interrogation room. If the Don won't come to me, at least I can still go to the Don, he thought, satisfied with that solution. He cast an instinctive glance toward Doreau's desk. Still gabbing away on the phone, he noted. When was she going to realize that police work, real police work, took place out on the streets?

Without thinking, he drew his Amigo and muttered. "Want to pay a visit to the seamy side of town – the garment district?"

"Who are you talking to, Inspector?" Officer Mayjoy's voice intruded on Hammer's monologue.

"No one." He gave his usual denial, minus his usual "caught again" look. As he thrust the magnum back into his shoulder holster, he wondered if this time it was actually true – and wondered when, or if, his relationship with Gun would return to normal again. He hurried off down the hall before anyone else could delay his progress. Justice delayed is justice denied, he snarled under his breath. His attention was completely focused on confronting Don Key, and hoping the excitement would return his relationship with Gun to normal. Until that moment arrived, nothing else mattered to him.

Trunk returned to his desk, sat down in his chair and considered the situation. Through the half open blinds he could see Hammer's back as he crossed the bullpen area, heading towards the hallway. He noted Hammer's quick glance in Doreau's direction. He saw Doreau duck her head so that Hammer wouldn't notice that she had been watching him. He saw Hammer draw his magnum and for a moment thought he intended to use drastic measures to get Doreau's attention. He spoke to it instead, saying something that Trunk couldn't hear, but that obviously caught Mayjoy's attention as he entered the bullpen area. Mayjoy's voice carried well enough for Captain Trunk to know that he made some comment, but not well enough for the Captain to understand it. Still, it wasn't hard to guess, based on Hammer's reaction – he swiftly holstered the magnum and hurried off down the hall way.

So, at least that much was still normal this morning. In fact, except for Hammer's earlier than usual presence in the office this morning, the Inspector's actions were, if not normal, at least no more abnormal than usual. That knucklehead is probably on his way to question Don Key.

Trunk smiled the faintest of smiles.

He probably thinks I slipped up, not telling him he couldn't do that. It's unlikely that Hammer will get any sort of admission from the Don, especially on home turf. But it might not hurt to make the Don aware that the craziest police officer in San Francisco was snooping around. It might make him nervous, and nervous people sometimes made mistakes.

The Captain resolved to give the organized crime detail a heads-up. As well as the Fire department and FEMA. And the Red Cross. They were always there when disaster strikes. Then he let his attention wander back to Detective Doreau.

Clearly, whatever has come between them has yet to be resolved. Normally, Doreau tried to protect Hammer from his own crazy theories, sometimes even defending parts of them. She would never let Hammer out on the street alone, any more than she would let him into my office alone. Yet, she had evidently been sitting at her desk while Hammer was in here spinning one of his wilder speculations. Now she's back talking on the phone while Hammer is headed for the streets. It's almost like she doesn't care.

It was certainly clear that she had something on her mind though. Trunk could see her clearly through his blinds, seated at her desk with her attention focused on her computer screen and the telephone receiver propped against her ear. He could barely make out information scrolling across the screen, but he was far too distant to make any of it out. He couldn't even tell for certain if it was words, numbers, or some combination or both. Whatever it was had her rapt attention.

Captain Trunk leaned back in his chair to consider the situation. His interview with Hammer had produced nothing of value. Indeed, in many respects, Hammer's behaviour while he was here was fairly normal, except for the way he ignores Doreau. His barging into my office, the cockamamie connection to Don Key, talking to his Gun … none of it was the least unusual for Hammer.

Doreau, on the other hand, did not appear to be acting normally. It's not at all like her to let Hammer come in to see me alone. It's even odder that Hammer could walk out, right through the bullpen, without her racing after him. What if I have it backwards? What if Doreau is angry at Hammer …?

Trunk felt a shiver go up his spine. He tried to shake off the feeling while he picked up the phone and dialled the Chief's number.

For a few moments Doreau simply stared at the files from cases she had reviewed earlier in the morning, undecided what to do next. Thanks to Hammer's rush to get back to the precinct, she only viewed about half of the crime scene. She had not even had a chance to examine the body or to talk with the Coroner, before rushing out with Hammer. Well, she could fix that, and the sooner the better. She picked up the phone and began dialing the Coroner's office.

As she expected, the voice on the other end informed her that Norman Blates was still working at the crime scene. No, she did not know when he would be returning. Yes, she could take a message. Yes, she would have Dr. Blates return her call as soon as he was available. Doreau hung up.

Norman wouldn't be back for at least an hour. Maybe I should have gone with Hammer, just in case.

Eventually, Doreau thought, she could get caught up by talking to Norman, after he got the victim back to the morgue for autopsy. There might even be some additional information from the autopsy that Hammer would not be aware of yet. She also had information and evidence from the arson scene that she knew Hammer had not seen. In the long run, I might have a head start on solving the case.

If Hammer doesn't solve it in the next couple of hours, she thought ruefully. What am I saying? Solve a case in two hours? Hammer? What am I worried about?

Her inner voice answered. Hammer has a suspect. What do you have? Where do you start?

Doreau turned and fumbled with her jacket, searching for a pocket. Her hand felt something hard, and she redoubled her efforts, taking only a moment to produce the disk she had found in the point of sale terminal. She held it up thoughtfully.

This is as good a place as any to start, she decided.

She inserted the disk into the drive slot on her computer, and while the machine searched for a directory, she stacked the folders on her desk neatly, and set the pile to one side. Then she concentrated on the monitor in front of her, holding her breath. She tapped her pencil impatiently on the desk as the disk whirred, paused, and whirred again. The computer always took its sweet time scanning foreign disks for viruses and malware before displaying any of the contents. She knew this, but knowing did nothing to assuage her impatience.

When the directory finally appeared before her, she breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly, she scanned the list, trying to determine the most opportune place to begin her investigation. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. Several files were present all following a consistent pattern, their names suggesting that they were created daily. Other information in the directory seemed to confirm this conclusion. The last file had been created the day before. She opened it, finding that its contents consisted of a number of entries apparently tracing the day's transactions. Scrolling quickly to the end, she found that the final entry had been made at 5:50 pm, the previous night. That fact was a fairly clear indication that Luigi was still alive at that time. The fact that the file had been closed normally and not left open was also a good indication that he was still following his normal routine, and that nothing was amiss at that time. She had the beginning of a timeline, she realized.

She perused the list of transactions more closely, trying to decide where to begin. The file was in basic spreadsheet format. Columns were present for the time of sale, the purchaser's name and some contact information, as well as some numeric codes, probably identifying the specific purchases. She was often asked to provide similar information when she made purchase. She often refused, as had a number of these customers, judging from the blanks present throughout the list. There was nothing that appeared unusual that she could identify during her brief scan. None of the information before her offered any obvious leads as to either the killer or a potential motive for the crime. The only potentially useful information that she saw was the list of names. Quickly, she copied names and contact information and closed the file she was viewing.

Well, if at first you don't succeed, she thought to herself. Maybe if the last file has nothing useful to tell me, then another one will. But which one? Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Doreau selected another file to open using a time honored method of random selection.

This file was virtually identical to the first one she had viewed. A bit longer, perhaps, but containing the same information in the same order and format. It took a little longer for her to scan the list, paying particular attention to the names. She had almost reached the end when her eyes stopped moving and focused on a single name. "Shauna Bayfield." Something about that name seemed familiar. Doreau went back to the list of names she had copied previously, checking each one. Nothing. She scanned the opened file again, from top to bottom. Not there either. I have seen that name recently, but where?

She tapped her pencil against her arm and frowned, trying to think. Trying to clear her mind, she let her eyes wander. They went straight to last place she wanted … the empty chair across from where she was seated. A quick glance at Captained Trunk's door revealed that it was still closed, with Hammer still inside speaking to Trunk. She heard the rise and fall of the Captain's voice and the deeper tones of Hammer's occasional responses, but the voices were indistinct and she couldn't follow their discussion. She focused her attention back on her own problem. As her eyes came back to her own desk, they flicked over the case files piled neatly to one side.

Inspiration! Eagerly she sat forward, reaching for the pile. Sliding them over in front of her she fanned them out to make the identifying tabs easier to read. Quickly her eyes scanned until she found what she was looking for and pulled it free. "Bayfield Robbery." Opening the folder she quickly compared the contact information with that displayed on her screen. They were the same. She picked up the phone and began dialing.

As the phone rang, she began to question her instincts. It was, she thought, unlikely that a purse snatching from two weeks ago and last night's homicide were connected. But at least this was something to take her mind off Sledge … and this morning … and last night. A human voice on the other end of the line interrupted her train of thought.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Ms. Bayfield?" Doreau inquired.

"Yes?" The voice on the line responded, sounding curious, but also wary with an unfamiliar caller.

"I'm Detective Dori Doreau, badge number 155621, from the San Francisco Police Department. I'm investigating a homicide that took place this morning." Doreau introduced herself, and then paused briefly to let the information sink in. The silence on the other end of the line continued, becoming uncomfortable.

"Hello?" Doreau repeated herself.

The person on the other end finally found her voice.

"A homicide? I don't understand. My purse was stolen, but no one was killed."

"I'm sorry you were robbed, ma'am." Doreau bit her tongue, remembering how she had felt offended by that word earlier. Then she steered the conversation back to her own investigation.

"Actually, the homicide took place at Luigi's Fashions. I believe you are a customer of theirs?"

"I've never been there"

Doreau's senses instantly became alert.

"Are you certain? I'm going through sales records and your name came up from two weeks ago"

"It was probably Jim, my husband. He purchased my birthday gift around that time, and may have given them my name, I suppose."

"I understand," Doreau continued probing. "Could I what he bought?"

"It was a new handbag. The same one that was stolen, in fact. It was one of those New York designer styles. I know it was quite expensive. We're not usually that extravagant." She paused briefly. "Why?"

Doreau made a note. It wasn't much, but it was the first tangible connection between the two events.

"Can you tell me anything about the man who took your purse?"

"I told the Officer who took my statement everything I could remember, Detective."

"Yes, but sometimes people remember things later that they couldn't think of at the time," Doreau paused a moment before continuing. "Do you recall if you saw anyone like him hanging around the store?"

"What did you say the name of the store was again?"

"Luigi's Fashions. It's located on Gough Street, a couple of blocks off Market". Doreau did her best to jog Ms. Bayfield's memory without providing more information than necessary. There was a brief pause.

"I'm sorry Detective. I'm certain I have never been there. I know it's hard to believe, but my husband actually picked it out on his own."

"I don't suppose your husband was with you when your purse was taken?"

"I'm afraid not, Detective. And I was so busy scrambling to pick up my things that I didn't really get a good look at the thief, either."

Doreau scanned the victim statement in the folder. That was why this incident stayed with her. The thief had dumped the purse contents before running off.

"Ms. Bayfield, your statement mentions that the thief dumped the contents of your purse before he ran off. Can you think of any reason why he would do that?"

"It does seem strange. I suppose he just wanted the purse. I am just thankful that I didn't lose my credit cards and ID."

"Thank you for answering my questions, Ms. Bayfield." Doreau was just about to end the phone call when another thought occurred to her. "I have just one more thing: Is there any possibility that your bag isn't authentic?"

"You mean, counterfeit?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded both shocked and amused. "Detective, he's my husband. He was shopping on his own. Would you trust a man about something like that?" After a brief pause, she continued. "The first thing I did was check the logo and the zippers and the lining. Then I ran downtown and had the sales clerk at Nordstrom's check it out again. It was real alright." The voice on the other end paused. "Some of my friends have said they'd kill for a bag like this. Do you think that's what happened to poor Mr. Luigi?"

"We're considering all possibilities right now Ms. Bayfield. Anything you remember might be important."

At that moment, the sound of Captain Trunk's door slamming hard caught Doreau's attention. Hammer came out and made a b-line for the exit. He almost caught her watching him, but she saw his head turning and glanced down quickly. He seemed to hesitate, and then reached inside his jacket to draw his magnum. She cringed, expecting the worst. Instead, he seemed to ask a question. Her lips twitched with an instinctive "Who are you talking to, Hammer?" It was always amusing to watch his reaction to that.

Hammer was so preoccupied that he almost collided with Officer Mayjoy, who was coming from the other direction. Mayjoy must have overheard Hammer's conversation and commented because the result was that Inspector Hammer hastily stuffed his gun back under his jacket, shrugged a familiar self-conscious shrug and stalked off down the hall. Busted again, she thought, with a smile, enjoying her partner's discomfort. Convinced that it was nothing extraordinary, she returned to her telephone conversation.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Bayfield. Could you give me a call at 555-6428 if you think of anything else? Just ask for Detective Doreau."

"Inspector Doreau … at 555 … uh … 6428," the voice repeated her name along with the phone number. "I'll be sure to call if I remember anything else."

The connection was broken, leaving Doreau to ponder the information she had gotten. Could it be a coincidence? There were a lot of thefts in the city every day. One instance of a robbery that seemed to intersect with her homicide case probably wasn't that unusual. But, what if there were more?

Absently, Inspector Doreau once again tapped her pencil against her desk and tried to concentrate on her computer screen. Scrolling once again through the list of files she sighed. Its length was daunting and, thinking of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of names in each file it was clear that the task ahead of her was going to be long and arduous. She needed to extract all of the names from all of the files. Then she would have to cross-check each name on the list against local crimes. She would of course also run the entire list against both California and Federal criminal databases. Perhaps a pattern would emerge.

A task like this was made even harder when she had to block out the bustle of other officers, working other cases, in the bullpen. This is why I come in early, she reflected. And sometimes even stay late – to avoid these distractions. It wasn't like she did it to avoid her partner. It was simply that there were those times when she simply preferred to work alone. She found herself wishing she could be alone, right now. A dark, quiet office and her work were just the balm her chafed ego desired. There were times when even that had not been enough, she reflected. Her thoughts drifted to another time when all she had wanted was to forget.

I was irritated then, too, she remembered. All I had wanted was to be left alone with my thoughts; to wallow in my own self-pity. She could admit that much to herself, now. He had intruded. If she closed her eyes, it took no effort at all to see a solitary figure, moving silently in the darkness. He had sat down just about there – in her mind she marked the spot. She had been certain that she had known what was coming next, of course. He'd warned her, now would come the gloating; the 'I told you so'. When he hadn't say it, she'd said it for him; anything to just get it over with sooner rather than later. She was an idiot. She had made a fool of herself. The words had tumbled out, and with their release had come a measure of relief.

This isn't solving my case, she chastised herself. It isn't solving my problem with Sledge either.

The guilt she felt from both of those failures nagged at her. Guilt? She understood her feelings about the case; as a professional she had come to expect herself to be above daydreaming when she was supposed to be working. Why should I feel guilty about last night – or today? Hammer is the one …

As much as she tried to blame him, her mind kept coming back to the fact that, in that earlier instance, he had been the one whose words had helped her wounds to heal. After listening to her accusations, her recriminations, he had spoken one simple sentence. "Well, what I was going to say was, if you're not busy … would you like to go bowling, Buddy?" With those innocuous, almost incongruous, words he had made two things clear: that what had happened didn't matter; it didn't alter the fact that they were partners and that as her partner he was there. Those few words had lifted a weight and her spirit felt freed.

What words could fix this problem? If her partner couldn't be the one to speak them, then who could she count on?

She shook her head, both literally and figuratively. It isn't going to happen this time. His words created the problem, and no amount of bowling will fix it. He isn't even acting like we're partners any more. And yes, it does matter!

That is what is really eating at me, she realized. It does matter. If it didn't matter, I wouldn't be obsessing about it now; I'd be solving this case! Maybe I should just confront him now; get it over with? Somehow the timing didn't feel right. Besides, he's not here, anyway. Suddenly she was acutely aware that Hammer had not reappeared after being hazed by Mayjoy. Where was he now?

Doreau heaved a heavy sigh. She took another look at the list of files on her computer screen. She needed to create a simple spreadsheet file, containing names, purchases, and dates, all arranged alphabetically so the she could scan down the list and find any particular name quickly and easily. She was fortunate that the list included phone numbers and addresses; otherwise she'd be forced to spend additional time looking up names and wrong numbers. She sighed again.

I might as well get started, she thought. Maybe after I open enough of these, some sort of pattern will emerge, she thought hopefully, as she once again copied the list of names from the file.

"This seems like a waste of time. Maybe what you need is a good hunch."

It's too early for lunch, she thought, absently.

"Not 'lunch' … 'hunch'. You need a good hunch. You could ask Sledge. If you knew where he was …"

"I don't care …" She bit the comment off abruptly, glancing around sharply and hoping no one had heard. It was bad enough working with a partner who consulted his sidearm for advice; she did not want her fellow officers thinking that she was following in his footsteps. Fortunately, everyone else around her seemed preoccupied with their own tasks.

I don't care where Sledge is, she tried to tell herself. Furious, she tried focusing her attention on the file directory again, hoping for some inspiration.

"What you call 'inspiration'; Sledge would call a 'hunch'."

Would you just shut up? She ordered herself.

"Hmmm. A little testy, aren't we? I think you need to look at this from a different perspective. Sledge always has a different perspective. Give him a chance, next time you see him."

Determined to put the matter of Sledge out of her head, Doreau began scrolling through the list of files once again. Over her years as an officer she had come to trust the voice in her head. Sometimes her subconscious had … insights … before she was even aware of them. Today, though, it seemed to have turned into a nagging annoyance that only wanted to talk about Sledge. It was right about one thing though; opening each file manually was a waste of her time.

The problem with this is that I have no place to start, she complained to herself. Then, inspiration hit. Maybe I'm going at this the wrong way, she thought, reaching for another of case files and opening it. Scanning the report she quickly found the information she was looking for – the date the infraction had taken place. On a hunch she opened the transaction file from the day previous and began searching.

Twenty minutes later she leaned back with a satisfied look on her face. With only a cursory examination of the store sales records, she had been able to match store customer's names with names in three of the open cases she had been reviewing.

This has to be more than a coincidence! With just a bit more time …

Time, she realized, is a luxury I don't have. There is a lot of information on the disk. It will probably need to be checked against all of the unsolved muggings in the city. Sooner or later, Captain Trunk will want to be brought up to date on the homicide investigation I'm not certain how, or even if, they are connected. I need to focus on the homicide. This looks more like a job for someone from Robbery Division to follow up on.

Quickly she made a copy of the disk and dropped it into an internal envelope along with some brief notes on her findings. She placed it, along with the relevant case files, on the corner of her desk, resolving to take the matter up with Captain Trunk later. Just because this gets handed over to Robbery is no reason he shouldn't know it was my work, she reasoned. Then she leaned back in her chair feeling like she had freed herself to consider other avenues of investigation.

"So what other 'avenues of investigation' do you have? You're here alone," the voice pointed out. "You only saw half of the crime scene. You don't even know where your partner is, or what he is doing, right now. "

That was the last straw for Doreau. She pulled out her field notes and began reviewing them, determined to find something, anything, to prove the nagging voice wrong. She flipped pages. The last one had a vehicle description, and a licence plate number.

Hammer swung the St Regis to the curb, pressing hard on the brake pedal as he arrived. The front of the St Regis dipped as the brakes engaged. Tires gripped the asphalt, but there just wasn't enough room for friction alone to stop Hammer's vehicle. That job was completed by a cheap Japanese import in front of him. Before he got out of the car, Hammer opened the glove compartment and removed a black velvet bag. Carefully, he reached inside and withdrew a round black object. This might be a good time to try out my latest invention, he thought as he slipped the item into his pocket.

When, Hammer got out, like any conscientious driver, he walked around to examine the damage. Peering over his sunglasses to get a better look, he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that Lexus trunk had crumpled before any serious damage was done to his heavy chrome bumper. No need to leave a note demanding the other driver's insurance information, he decided. Satisfied by his survey, Hammer took the direct route, over the St Regis hood, to the shop door. As he entered, a receptionist stood to greet him.

"Whadaya want?" The towering, stocky built individual inquired as he moved to bar Hammer's access to the rest of the store.

"For you to join Weight Watchers, for one thing," Hammer growled. This Neanderthal's fingers are more suited to carving notes a hammer and chisel on stone tablets, rather than using typewriters and paper.

Just then a second individual, virtually indistinguishable from his partner in height, weight, or general appearance, stepped into the room through the back door. As if one budding sushi wrestler wasn't enough. How these guys got so big on a diet of raw fish was beyond comprehension. Maybe they were only Sushi wrestlers? Whatever they did, Hammer was certain it didn't qualify as real sport, not in America!

"Look," Hammer continued, "I'm Inspector Sledge Hammer." Hammer stopped there, confident that this information more than justified his presence.

"You're with the gas company?" The hulking, overweight, receptionist responded.

"I'm with the Police," Hammer snarled, pulling his identification out of his jacket and flashing the badge inside. "The ones who carry guns, not guitars." He opened his jacket to display the .44 magnum nestled under his arm. "I'm here to see Don Key," Hammer strained the words through his tightly clenched teeth. "And, you're in my way," he added pointedly.

In response, the two refugees from Dr. Bernstein® opened their jackets, revealing 9 mm Berettas under their coats, and stepped forward menacingly.

Hammer smiled. Forgotten was the fact that Gun wasn't speaking to him. Old habits were just too hard to break. "Looks like we won't miss target practice this morning after all," he said happily, as he drew Gun.

"Boys." A voice from the back interrupted all of them. "Inspector Hammer is a guest. Show him some respect."

Hearing the voice, the two froze in mid stride, and then relaxed. "Would you like a latte? Or maybe a Yogurt?" The one who had been behind the receptionist's desk inquired.

Latte? Yogurt? This guy was worse than Doreau. Worse because he was supposed to be a man, not a barista.

Hammer shoved his magnum firmly back into its holster, squeezed between the two goons, and popped into the next room. There he found a middle aged man, with his feet up on the desk in front of him, finishing a strawberry Yoplait®. Don Key, he identified the man from his police mug shot.

"Inspector Hammer," the Don greeted him. "It's an honour to meet a man with your reputation."

Hammer was taken aback. Yogurt sucking criminal scum don't usually greet me with open arms.

"Don't confuse me," he responded.

"My apologies, Inspector," the Don continued. "This is my … uh … my secretary, Poesje." The Don introduced a stunning blonde haired woman, clad in an equally stunning black dress of minimalist proportions. She was apparently applying what passed for shorthand skills to the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Over the knee platform stiletto boots completed a look that, in Hammer's opinion, was well on the "in" side of decent.

One more charge to add to the list, Hammer mused to himself.

The woman flashed Hammer a blindingly white smile that Hammer's sunglasses reduced to a comfortable glow. All the while she continued studiously massaging Don Key's neck with a single-mindedness that reminded Hammer of a cat kneading its claws on his favourite "Most Wanted" poster.

"I believe you've met my two executive trainees, Shrek and Fiona." The Don waved in the direction of the two muscle bound thugs who now waited impassively by the door through which Hammer had entered the room. Where they had previously attempted to keep him from entering, their position now emphasised that Hammer was free to leave only at their boss's pleasure. Or over their dead bodies. An option Hammer eagerly looked forward to exercising.

"Which one is Fiona?" Hammer questioned, thinking that if he had to shoot his way out, he might as well use the adage "Ladies first".

"I don't know, Inspector," the Don confided. "They both look alike to me." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "I think she's actually one of those girlie men the Governor talks about."

Don Key's demeanour switched, and became serious.

"Now, what can I do for the San Francisco Police Department?"

"Well, you could arrest yourself, read yourself your rights, put on these handcuffs, and come downtown," Hammer responded. On his face was an expression that indicated a certain hopeful optimism in the request. Under that thin veneer, he hoped the Don would put up a fight, thereby giving him an excuse … any excuse.

The Don laughed uproariously. After a moment's hesitation, the two ogres at the door glanced at each other, then at their boss, and joined in the revelry. Poesje seemed confused.

"On what charge, Inspector?" The Don inquired, regaining his self-control and picking himself up off the floor beside his chair. Poesje resumed displaying her single minded attention to her duties; her fingers returning her employer's shoulders as soon as the Don regained his chair.

"Homicide," Hammer said simply.

"Homicide?" Repeated the Don. "You mean murder?"

"No, I mean gratuitous use of synonyms, you flatworm," Hammer snarled.

At that, the Don sat up, brushing Poesje's slender fingers away from his shoulders. She shot a disappointed glance at Hammer, and sulked off to one side.

"Inspector, I'm a respected member of the community," the Don protested. "Why would I commit murder?"

"Because you wanted someone dead." Only a brain dead mutant wouldn't know that, Hammer thought.

The Don remained calm. This eggplant is just trying to rattle me.

"OK, Inspector. I'll play along with your fantasy. Who is dead? And, what makes you think I killed him?" The Don decided to get straight to the point. If this moron has any evidence of anything I've done, my boys can see that he never leaves here alive.

"Vincent Luigi, the owner of Luigi's Fashions over on market. He was murdered and stuffed in a suitcase with your calling card attached to it." Hammer pulled the luggage tag from his pocket again, slamming it down face up on the desk.

Don Key picked up the tag from his desk and examined it closely. Turning his chair slightly, he beckoned for Poesje to approach. Ecstatic that her talents were once again needed, she almost danced over to him. He held out the tag for her to inspect. After only a quick glance, she began to giggle. Hammer frowned, feeling like someone had just told a joke and he had missed the punch line. What was going on?

"Poesje, sweetheart, go into the back, and bring out a sample of our merchandise for the 'Inspector' to inspect. Pick something really nice for yourself, too." The Don patted her derrière affectionately as she strutted off, doing her best imitation of a model on the runway. As Hammer's eyes followed her, he had to concede that nothing he could see appeared to be counterfeit.

Don Key pushed the luggage tag back across the desk to Hammer.

"You can keep this, Inspector. I have no idea where you got it," he began. "But I can tell you that it's from some cheap counterfeit. I'd was probably made in a foreign country, probably one unfamiliar with American English – England, or Canada perhaps. They didn't even get the spelling right." That hot shot Raj, from India, in quality control, will be inspecting starfish when I get done with him.

Hammer snatched the tag back. This guy's story is starting to sound suspiciously like the bunk Captain Trunk handed me. Did Trunk phone ahead to sleaze? Why would he do that?

The Don spoke again, interrupting Hammer's train wreck thought process.

"Hammer," he began obsequiously. "Can I call you Hammer? Look, Hammer, I run a reputable business here. Let me assure you that we sell only authentic merchandise, from the finest designers."

Poesje returned at that moment, modelling a slim, tan, lady's over-the-shoulder satchel as though Hammer was a prospective buyer, while carrying an identical looking item which she handed to Don Key. She resumed posing, holding her satchel in various positions, looking for the one position that best showed off her new possession, without concealing any of her own attributes. The Don smiled as he took the item from her, waving for Hammer to come closer. He opened the satchel and invited Hammer to examine it more closely.

"See? The label should say DKNY®, not DNKY; that's your first clue."

The Don continued, pointing out various features which, apparently, were important to someone. They were unimportant to Hammer, however, who had already tuned out of the conversation. This guy is telling me about clues? None of this has anything to do with my murder investigation. Now if he would just shut up and confess, then I'd be getting somewhere.

"Look, Inspector," the Don said, sensing that he didn't have Hammer's full attention. "I'm sure a man of your obvious talents doesn't need me to point these things out. Take it with you. Go ahead. Give it to your girl. She'll know real quality when she sees it. And I'll bet she'll really show her appreciation to the guy who gives it to her." The Don gave Hammer a knowing wink, and Poesje giggled excitedly again.

Hammer had the distinct feeling the meeting was ending. He had one last card to play, and, desperately, he played it. Reaching into his jacket pocket he withdrew the round black object, tossing it in the direction of the startled Don, who managed to catch it.

"What's this?" The Don demanded to know.

"That," Hammer snarled through his teeth, "is how I play "Clue". Go ahead. Look at it. What does it say?"

Curious, the Don looked closely, realizing that he held a Magic 8 Ball. Through the window he saw the word "Guilty" displayed.

"See? That's my first clue that you're guilty." Hammer was on a roll. He could feel it. This Don was ready to break.

The Don suddenly smiled. "Here, catch." He commanded, tossing the ball to one of his bodyguards.

"You guilty, too?"

"Yeah, boss. I'm guilty, too," the man affirmed, puzzled as to why his boss was asking him to confess.

"Toss it to Poesje. I bet she's guilty, too," Don Key continued, now thoroughly enjoying the game. The man made an easy, underhanded toss, which Poesje caught with both hands.

"Me, too; me, too. I'm guilty, too," she squealed, not quite understanding what was happening but happy to go along.

"Now toss it back to the Inspector," the Don instructed.

Poesje wound up and delivered a wild, left handed pitch that had Hammer ducking to avoid a concussion. The ball landed with a hard crack, rolling into a corner. The Don held up his hand for no one to move.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, "she throws like a girl."

"You're right," Hammer agreed, "My ex-wife always aimed for my head, too."

Everyone in the room laughed as the Don walked over, picked up the ball and examined it with exaggerated interest, before handing it back to Hammer.

"Either it's broken, or the floor is guilty, too," the Don finished, sarcastically. "Unless the ball means you, Inspector," Don Key concluded, handing the ball back to the Inspector and tapping his finger accusingly on the word "Guilty" which glared back at Hammer from inside the ball.

"Now GET OUT!" He roared. "And take that cheap parlour trick with you!"

Seeing the two goons once again assuming a menacing stance, and still in shock that his elaborate scheme to break the Don's resistance had failed, Hammer backed hastily out of the room. The hired muscle followed him, at a distance, out the front door. They stood there, impassively blocking the entrance just in case he had a change of heart

Hammer slid into the driver's seat and tossed the lady's satchel on the passenger seat. He picked up the velvet bag and carefully placed the Magic 8 Ball back inside before stowing it back in the glove compartment. He backed up just far enough to swing into the street, only grazing the Lexus and breaking the left tail light as he did so. Then he sped off, reflecting that the Don had been wrong about one thing.

It wasn't a cheap parlour trick; the modifications had set him back $159.95. Maybe he could still get his money back.