Monday, May 17th 10:30 A.M.

News of the break-in on Collingswood Avenue had traveled with the speed of an Olympic sprinter through the Parkside, Pennsylvania police department. In the first two hours at his desk, 20 people came up to Dean inquiring about poor Fred O'Connor. It must be nice to be so popular. If Dean himself had been bound and gagged, it would have been the joke of the squad room for weeks to come. To make the day no better, the telephone chirped nonstop and everyone in the station wanted a piece of him for cold cases, new cases and paper work. Dean's mood was souring by the minute. He remained annoyed at himself for involving Cynthia in the Baratto business and undecided about telling her the break-in was his fault-if she called. Which she hadn't. Maybe that was the main reason he was so pissed.

When the world wasn't expressing sympathy for the old man, they were looking for details on Billie Wassermann, his butt-brand, and all the gory details of the fat twin's execution. The only halfway pleasant phone call came from Norm Hunter in Norfolk. He said he was just asking about Dean's return trip but he was fishing for details on why the FBI was so unexpectedly interested in Billie Wassermann.

"They were all over this place like bolls on cotton. He must be part of something big."

Dean gave a capsule account of Vinnie Baratto and his connec­tion to the murdered Wasserman. Then Hunter added, "They wanted to see the file on your pal Jeffrey Byrne as well. Now why do you suppose he'd interest them?" Dean told Hunter about his off-hand comment and how Baratto had jumped all over the

Scranton connection.

"Any reason to dig that casket back up?" he asked.

"No," Dean answered. "At least not officially. But you can do me a favor on the case."

"Sure thing, old pal. Just name it."

"Have someone check out the bicycle shops in the area and see if that half receipt you found in the car came from one of them." He explained about the tire repair kit. "It's just a hunch and I'm not sure what it would mean if he did make a purchase. I'm just curious."

Hunter laughed. "You sure are curious. If you were a cat, you'd be one dead pussy." He added that he'd let Dean know if he devel­oped any information.

When Dean replaced the phone and glanced up, the tall figure of Jonathan Winston was standing next to his desk, smiling down and, as usual, impeccably dressed. Dean wasn't sure what the FBI man had heard, if anything.




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