No. I Was the Trap.

He lowered the gun entirely.

"Who do you work for?" he said.

"The people whose evidence you're going to help me collect," I said.

He looked at me for a moment.

"And if I don't help you."

"Then you helped Vulov move something through the port that you didn't know the nature of," I said, "and the documentation of your involvement is sufficient to charge you, and you'll explain to a jury why you facilitated it, and the jury will consist of people who read the newspapers, and the newspapers have been covering what Vulov moves for six months."

He was quiet.

"Or," I said, "you tell me what you know about the manifest review schedule, the container routing, and Carl Briggs, and the documentation of your involvement reflects the full extent of your actual knowledge, which is considerably less than what you facilitated."

Falco looked at the wet pavement.

He looked at the alley walls.

He looked at me.

"How long were you in the diner?" he said.

"Eight months."

Something moved across his face that was not quite amusement. "I started paying you after four."

"I know," I said. "I counted."

He was quiet again. The rain came down on the alley and on the pavement and on the scarred brick walls and on the two men on the ground and on Carmine Falco in his tailored coat, and he stood in it without flinching because he was not the kind of man who flinched at rain.

"The deputy," he said.

"Subpoenaed last week."