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hit.”
    “Mistaken identity?”
    “That’s a good possibility.” Wager told him about his suspicions concerning Gerald Covino.
    “But the brother gave you nothing solid?”
    Wager wouldn’t be sitting on his tail in the Bulldog’s office if he had something solid; Doyle knew that. Wager did not bother to answer.
    “Marco and Dominick Scorvelli …. That’s one very interesting wrinkle.” Doyle’s gaze roamed the wall over their heads. “How reliable is your source for that information, Wager?” Doyle still had lingering suspicions about Wager’s Narcotics Division background, and they crept out every now and then in questions of judgment that he would not ask other experienced officers.
    “He’s been around a long time and a lot of people talk to him. When he gives me something, it’s usually been good.”
    “How much do we pay him for it?”
    Doyle was always worried about that. “I drink a few beers with him now and then. He won’t accept any money.”
    “Jesus,” said Max. “The taxpayers could use more like him.”
    Doyle only grunted. Then he said, “Well, we’re getting some media interest in this shooting—nothing heavy, but I’d like to wrap up the case as soon as possible. Why don’t you drop by the Organized Crime Unit, Wager? You know those people over there; see if they’ll tell you what they have going on Dominick Scorvelli. Maybe we can come at this thing from another direction.”
    Doyle had called the O.C.U. “those people” because they had their own budget and organization and liked to work without letting the regular units of D.P.D. know what they were doing. Security, they called it; arrogance was how most of D.P.D. saw it. But Doyle was right on two counts: it was worth a try since nothing else seemed any good; and since Wager had worked over there not too long ago, they might be a little more relaxed about giving information to him.
    Outside the Bulldog’s office, Max asked, “You want to split up? I’ll take the remainder of this list of Covino’s friends while you go visit the O.C.U.?”
    They would cover more ground that way, but sometimes it was better, as his grandfather used to say, to run with slow strides. “If we’re together we might come up with more.” Besides, there was still so much missing—still so much that he couldn’t squeeze between these ten fingers—that he was hungry to handle every fragment of the case. It was the same feeling as when he sat and stared at the photographs—the same need to absorb every detail he could.
    As they left main headquarters by the rear corridor, a voice cut through the clatter of machinery from the building under construction next door. “Max! Max the Ax—wait up!” Police reporter Gargan, his familiar black turtleneck shirt showing through the open parka, jogged toward them from the new performing arts complex. “Max—can you give me something on this shooting?” The reporter ignored Wager and looked up at Max hopefully. “Anything at all?”
    “Not yet, Gargan. The killer or killers didn’t leave much information. We’re just doing what we can with what we’ve got, and right now that’s not a hell of a lot.”
    “Would you call it a gangland slaying?”
    “Well, no … We can’t really … ”
    “Do you think there’s any possibility of another gang war starting? Like, maybe, the unsolved Scorvelli killing last year?”
    “There’s no link that we know of.”
    “I heard the victim might have been connected with Scorvelli’s death.”
    “Who the hell told you that?” asked Wager.
    Gargan finally looked at him, his lips stretched in the kind of smile that twisted the corners of his mouth down. “You did, Wager. When you tried to find out from Mrs. Covino if her kid was tied in with the Scorvellis. That really got to her, man—you really have a talent for doing that to people. You must have hair on the bottom of your feet.” He turned back to Max. “All that poor old lady could talk about