Original subtitles

People in this town refer to him as Saint Max.

The philanthropist, that Maxwell Hagen? Your classic case of more than meets the

eye. I want to know where the leak is.

This game just got more expensive.

Quiet, I have a gun. I said let go.

Please. There seems to be someone else who looks like me.

Max Hagen is lying.

Mrs. Fletcher, it's none of your damn business. Jess, you're becoming almost

cynical enough to survive in this town. Killing a prominent novelist is simply

not an acceptable option.

Yes? Oh, hi.

Oh, God.

When?

How?

All right, all right. How much time do I have?

Oh, damn you. You promised that there would be no problems, no danger.

No, no, no. You listen to me.

This game just got more expensive. I want $200,000 and protection.

Listen, I'm not interested. Just do it, or you could...

Damn.

Besides being unable to imagine why you want to make the protagonist of your

next novel a newspaper man, I don't think mine are the brains you want to be

picking.

Sullivan, I don't want to know how you got those tickets.

or why my kid digs that kind of music, but he really loved the show.

Anytime, pal. I'll call you next week. You're a hell of a guy. Hell of a guy.

He's a real jerk.

He's got more connections than a tenement wall socket.

I do him a couple of favors, he feeds me some information about City Hall.

Oh, fascinating.

Yeah. Anyway, what can I tell you? It's all getting out of hand.

The editors are getting younger and younger and shallower and shallower.

Briony, thank God I found you.

Speak of the devil.

Jessica Fletcher, Jason Nerd.

Heard. Jason Heard, ma'am. How do you do?

He's my junior managing editor.

Assistant managing editor.

Whatever. Nice to meet you.

Briony, I've got big problems with you, Colin.

No kidding.

Well, here, for instance.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They're different from you and me.

What kind of a line is that?

The kind of guy by the name of F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote on one of his bad days.

Have you ever been by any chance?

Well, of course I have. I just... But then there's all this other stuff. I

mean, who is this George S.

Kaufman and Ben Heck?

I don't get it, Briony.

And if I don't get it, neither will our readers.

Fix it.

I'll need it on my desk by 1 p.m. tomorrow.

Nice to meet you, Mrs.

Fleming.

And you, Mr. Heard.

Oh, I'm sorry, Brian.

I know it isn't funny to you.

I'm telling you, it's everywhere.

On past occasions, he would have driven me to drink.

Tony!

Yes, Mr. Sullivan?

A dish of chocolate mocha ice cream. Take it a double.

Jessica? Oh, don't tempt me.

Hey, hey, hey, look, here.

You got your typical bland 14-year-old reporter asking your typical put-you-to

-sleep type questions instead of nailing Coach Davis where he lives.

Like, what about his former pensions for nose candy or compulsive gambling, both

of which are rumored to be rearing their ugly heads again?

Or even more to the point, how much does he have on his boss, Maxwell Hagan? The

philanthropist, that Maxwell Hagan? Your classic case of more than meets the eye.

Now, that is a story I would pay to write, but find an editor smart enough

or with guts enough to print it.

Stupid idiot, infantile moron.

Sure you want to use me as a model?

Briony, you're it, and that's final.

Nobody can do what you do.

Nobody.

Think of it as, Jess, I don't know that I could do it anymore.

Look, I, uh, I got to work on these idiot changes.

I'm not going to be able to meet you tomorrow morning.

Oh, well, that's perfect. I've got a million things that I have to do before

I leave for San Francisco. Why don't you make your idiot changes?

And we'll meet for a late lunch.

Since I was barely able to talk, my mother rather relentlessly impressed

upon me my social responsibility toward others less fortunate.

It stayed with me.

And therefore, it is my pleasure to present this check for $1 million to the

Inner City Hospital.

That it?

That'll do it. See, it gets in tomorrow's paper, the picture and the

quote.

Here's the new blurb for the teaching chair endowment.

I still hate it. Oh, Max, for God's sake.

I added heart, a little pathos. It needs more warmth.

About another 25 degrees.

Funny, I looked all over my desk and couldn't find the Feldman contracts.

Sorry about that. Things were a little backed up. I'll have to in a couple of

days. Tomorrow.

Max? 9 a.m.

How is he tonight?

It's okay.

We've got a line on her.

You damn well better not let her slip away again.

Understood. Is it?

Are you sure you realize what's at stake for me?

For you?

Yes, sir, I do.

Excuse me.

Uh,

you, uh, wanted to see me, Max?

As the Eagles suffer another devastating defeat, some people are saying that

team owner Max Hagen may just be too nice a guy, too easygoing for this

business. In other sports news...

You know better than that now, don't you, Coach?

One more loss like last night, and you'd better update your resume.

200,000 in witness protection?

What, are you out of your mind?

Forget it.

Come on, you have any idea what I had to do to convince the Attorney General to

let me go 100?

Hey, you guaranteed her, you turned her, and now she's gone to ground.

How do I know if she had the merchandise in the first place, much less now?

Hell, for all I know, Liz Foster doesn't even exist.

I go back and blow this kind of smoke at the boss and I'm out of here.

Do I really want Hagen?

Does Second Avenue have potholes?

I said no. You worry about her.

Listen, you wanted the heat taken off you, so just make sure I get what the

lady has on Hagen before he does her.

Capisce?

Ellen. Yes, Mr. Paloma. Give me the Attorney General.

Oh.

Yes, Mr. Garrity.

Uh, yes, sir, you're confirmed for an aisle seat.

Yes, sir, that's both ways.

Uh, thank you, Mr. Garrity.

Sorry.

Transy Sterling, how may I help you?

Uh, on the 12th. Just a moment, please.

Have a nice flight. Thank you.

Yes, sir. We have space on... Oh!

Oh!

Miss Foster!

Miss Foster!

Miss Foster!

What are you doing?

Let go of me.

Quiet. I have a gun. I said let go.

Please.

Somebody help me.

All right, now, I want an explanation.

Maxwell Hagen?

You? You're J.B. Fletcher. Good Lord, I'm... Mr. Hagen, I have been pushed and

bruised and shoved, and I want to know why, and I want to know now. I am

terribly sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. There's been a dreadful mix-up. A mix-up? Well,

that's hardly an explanation for what... Please, let me explain all this.

It was...

It was simply a little surprise that I'd prepared for a dear friend on the

occasion of her birthday.

Mr. Hagen. And apparently... Mr. Hagen, I don't believe you.

Mrs. Fletcher, I assure you.

Well, won't you at least permit me to explain while I give you a lift back

home?

Let me do her.

Robert, you're absolutely right to assume that there are a few things in

this life that cannot be fixed.

But killing a prominent novelist is simply not an acceptable option.

Not for the moment, at least.

Now, I want you to find the foster woman, and quickly.

And if your people aren't up to the job, as they've thus far indicated,

Sarah, darling, I'm afraid I'm in need of some urgent damage control.

But, Lieutenant, you admitted that the car was registered to Max Hagen

Enterprises. I admitted the plate number you gave me might have been... Oh,

Lieutenant. Are you aware that around this town there are a lot of people who

refer to him as St. Max? I mean, do you realize?

that he is a major contributor to the Police Benevolent Association.

Yes, Lieutenant.

Oh, okay. Mrs. Fletcher, let's suppose you're right. Yes, let's.

Let's suppose that it was Mr. Hagen.

Okay? All right?

Now, let me ask you.

What was so bad? What was so bad? I mean, in a limousine they pick you up,

right? And then they just let you go, right? Lieutenant, that is the man who

abducted me. Now, I'm not a crank.

I am a citizen with a legitimate complaint.

Now, are you going to do something about it, or do I have to go to your

superiors? Mrs. Fletcher.

Mrs.

Fletcher.

In 11 days, I retire.

11 days.

And I got me a perfect record.

20 years.

20 years I kept my nose clean.

No demerits, no waves, no rocking boats. I just... You got any idea how hard that

is to do?

Yes. I'm sure it's very difficult.

Lieutenant, what are you trying to say to me?

What I'm trying to say is, why couldn't you claim you got grabbed by somebody

who's at least been busted for a few outstanding parking tickets?

To say that I'm honored to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher, is a massive

understatement. Please, do have a seat.

Thank you.

But I'm afraid the truth is I've never seen you before in my life.

Except, of course, on the dust jackets of your books.

Mr. Hagen, that is simply not... And by the way, Murder at the Ridgetop has got

to be my favorite. Jack Cremont is one of the funniest, most vivid characters

you've ever written.

Thank you, Mr. Hagen, but I am not mistaken.

Oh, please, I know that.

I never for a moment meant to imply that I don't believe you've suffered a

horrible and frightening experience.

Yes, at your hands.

I wish I could put this in more palatable terms, Mrs. Fletcher, but

you're wrong.

Mr. Hagen, you were wearing a blue and white seersucker jacket and blue slacks.

There were three men with you, and your car was gray, and the car that I was

forced into was black.

Lieutenant Gelber, the license number that I gave you was registered to Mr.

Hagen, wasn't it?

Well, yes, but I suppose someone could have used one of my cars.

There, you see?

Oh, this is ridiculous. Fred, I want you to find out exactly where every one of

our vehicles was this afternoon. I tell you, Mrs. Fletcher, it's truly terrible

what our city has come to. That a woman such as yourself isn't even safe in

broad daylight.

But even more unfortunate is the fact that it seems there's someone else who

looks like me.

As if one weren't bad enough.

Lieutenant Galbraith. Right.

Mr. Hagen, Mrs. Fletcher alleges that she was abducted around 12.30 this

afternoon. Might I ask you whereabouts at that time?

Of course. Fred and I were in Boston.

That's right, Lieutenant. We returned, oh, not 15 minutes ago.

Our helicopter landed us on the roof.

I'm sure you can verify that with New York Air Traffic Control and with our

pilot, whose name is...

That won't be necessary.

Yet, Mr. Hagen, I am really sorry for this whole thing.

Lieutenant, don't give it another thought. Nor you, Mrs. Fletcher.

Oh, and I'd be terribly flattered if you would reward me with an autographed copy

of your next book.

And like I said, I'm sure there's a nice, simple explanation to this whole

nagilla. Oh, there certainly is.

Max Hagen is lying.

That isn't quite what I had in mind. Listen, Mrs. Fletcher, do me a favor,

will you? You got any more complaints about Mr. Hagen? Would you mind taking

them to someone else? Anyone else? You can count on it, Lieutenant.

Oh, no.

Mrs. Fletcher, we'd like you to come with us. Oh, that does not entitle you.

Yes, ma'am. Oh, come on. This is ridiculous.

Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be.

I don't understand what's going on here.

We're serving with a writ. He's being paid to judge, not to avoid controversy.

Remind the senator that he promised me his endorsement for governor before I

drop the charges against his nephew.

Mrs. Fletcher, I'm Louis Paloma. I need to know everything you know about Max

Hagan. Now, just a minute, Mr. Paloma. I'm sorry for your inconvenience. We may

have caused you.

Inconvenience? Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don't have much time. Not exactly what

happened between you and Max Hagan. Well, at least somebody believes me.

Now, Mr. Paloma.

What are you going to do about my abduction? You have any idea why these

men may have picked you up? None, except they must have mistaken me for someone

else. We know that, Mrs. Fletcher. Think.

Why you? Why at that particular location?

I told you, Mr. Paloma, I have no idea.

Now, I want to ask you... All right, I want you to drop this matter. I don't

want you going to the police, and I don't want you complicating things any

more than you already have.

More than I already... Now, if anything occurs to you, anything at all, that

might shed some light on why you were abducted, I want you to call me any

time, day or night.

Now, if you'll excuse me.

No, I will not. I will not excuse you for having me grabbed off the street

like a common criminal.

And since you obviously have some sort of professional interest in Mr. Hagen's

activities, I certainly won't excuse you for not telling me what it's all about.

Mrs. Fletcher, it's none of your damn business.

Maybe it isn't, Mr. Paloma. But if Mr. Hagen and his people find the woman they

were really after, she may not be as lucky as I was.

I sincerely hope you're making that your business.

And to make up in some small way for what we are sure was a terribly

upsetting experience.

Mr. Hagen has asked that I present you with this check for your favorite

charity.

$25,000?

And, of course, he's placed no conditions on it.

Conditions?

Oh, no.

Absolutely none, except the tacit ones.

I should agree to drop my complaint and ignore his lies, neither of which I am

prepared to do.

Yes? Mr. Sullivan down here. Oh, please have him come up.

I am sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Fletcher.

Tell me, Miss Lloyd.

Do you really believe that Maxwell Hagen is the solid, unpeachable pillar of

society that he claims to be?

Yes, absolutely.

Well, then I don't suppose you have any idea why a federal prosecutor might be

interested in the woman that I was mistaken for. Or Mr.

Hagen. No, I don't.

Miss Lloyd.

Hello, Mr. Sullivan.

I guess I don't have to ask what she was doing here.

I just hope you weren't buying what Hagen had up peddling.

There was no sale.

Good.

Okay, now go get yourself all horsed up. What?

We're going to a party.

Oh, party.

I am exhausted. Jess, Jess, Jess.

I got us an invite to a little press reception for the New York Eagles.

You mean the basketball team that Maxwell Hagen owns?

You got it, kiddo. And our host is none other than himself.

Now, I figure.

We play our cards right, you can get another shot at him.

The old indicator.

Tells me that there's a story lurking somewhere in this whole comedy of

errors, denials and out-and-out lies.

This Mr. Paloma, he certainly seems to be very driven.

That's our Louie. Pure political animal.

Ruthless. And desperate to make a run for Albany.

I'm bringing down someone as prominent as Max Hagen. That could give Mr. Paloma

a high enough profile to attract campaign contributions.

Jess, you're becoming almost cynical enough to survive in this town.

Oh, heaven help me.

Okay. We got Paloma.

We got Hagen.

And we got a mystery woman.

Wait a minute.

Three separate elements, but somehow they're connected. This is what it's all

about. This is what what's all about?

Well, this is my airline ticket.

They put it in someone else's folder.

Grand Palace Hotel?

Yes. Could you connect me with Miss Foster's room, please?

Bingo. And that's the lady I'd like to interview for the record.

She isn't? Are you quite sure?

Certain, ma'am. Well, thank you.

Well, that's the Grand Palace Hotel, but she's not registered there.

Damn.

Maybe she hasn't checked in yet.

You're reading my mind.

Galba, what's going on? Oh, so, Mrs.

Fletcher. Murder.

Look, you'll have to excuse me. I really can't talk with you just now.

Okay, use that one. Someone will know who the hell she is.

Pardon me, Lieutenant.

You don't know the victim's name?

Mrs. Fletcher. Galba, talk to the woman. Be a mensch.

She's a Jane Doe. No ID. They found her in the elevator.

Why? Because unless I'm very much mistaken, her name is Liz Foster.

Jess, you can't beat up on yourself.

I mean...

Suppose you had discovered the ticket mix-up earlier.

Who knows that you could have even found the woman, much less warned her that you

might be in trouble.

Lieutenant, like Mrs. Fletcher said, nobody named Foster is registered here.

And so far, nobody on the staff has ever seen her.

All right, well, run it past some of the guests.

Maybe she was visiting someone. All right.

Look, I'd love to kick this around with you sometime when I got nothing else on

my mind, like 11 days from now. Come on, Galba.

Mrs. Fletcher was grabbed by Hagen's people because she was given the wrong

ticket folder.

They thought she was Liz Forster. And Mr. Sullivan, a woman whose name we

don't know, gets herself mugged and killed in a hotel elevator.

The perp strangles her with some kind of a strong cord, grabs a handbag, and

splits, period.

If that indicates even a remote connection with Max Hagen, with somebody

named Liz Forster, with this lady's claim that she was abducted, then I'm in

the wrong business.

Lieutenant, what would you say if I were to tell you that federal prosecutor

Louie Paloma was conducting an investigation of Mr. Hagan's activities

with special interest in Liz Foster?

Emmis, why don't you give Louie a call? I got a feeling you two might find a lot

to talk about.

that your attention hasn't already wandered to all that food and booze. I

just want to add one more thing.

This is the year the New York Eagles are going all the way.

And you know why?

Because I hate losing.

What do you say, Mr. Hagen?

Righty.

And Mrs. Fletcher, how lovely to see you again.

Mr. Hagen.

It appears the unfortunate woman your people mistook me for was just found

murdered. I believe her name was Liz Foster.

Forgive me, but I... Foster?

Washington? Fred? Am I imagining this, or wasn't there a young woman down there

who worked for us by that name?

It's possible.

I'll check it out.

Please do.

It's ghastly enough when anyone is murdered, but if it's one of our people,

I... Now, you're sure that it was this...

foster woman?

Oh, it's the police who aren't sure, Mr. Hagen. I see.

Now, Mrs. Fletcher, Briney, I hope you'll excuse me, but as host of this

intimate little evening, it's expected that I work the room.

Now, that is a piece of work.

Look, this hasn't been one of my favorite days.

I don't have the time, the energy, or the patience for this, okay?

Okay. So then answer me one question.

Last time I did that, you cost me an election.

Then I got me a Pulitzer. Go figure.

Anyway, this one's on the house.

Are you investigating Max Hagen? No. And I have zero interest in your theories

about this Foster woman's death.

Then it was Liz Foster.

Yes.

Now, get out.

Not so fast, Mr. Paloma.

Now, Liz Foster was a living, breathing person.

It's bad enough that the police don't seem to care, but you, you're an officer

of the U.S. government.

All right, all right.

I'm sorry she was killed, okay?

No, but it's a beginning.

Listen, Mrs. Fletcher, dozens of people are murdered every day in this town, but

they are just not my concern.

And I think I know why, pal.

You nail yourself some lower-level mob gunsel, and it still leaves the

organization doing business as usual. You grab yourself a couple of headlines,

but nothing that sticks to the voters' ribs.

Sullivan, you've been inhaling too much Irish whiskey.

Not for two years, 18 days, and about six minutes.

A slam dunk.

That's what you're after, aren't you?

You get your eye on the big score, and that's Max Hagen. That's it.

Sullivan, you should have hung it up a long time ago. Now get out of here. Wait

a minute.

Liz Foster was working for you, wasn't she?

As some kind of an informant? It all makes sense. Am I being brought down

here for questioning your anxiety over any information I might have that could

lead to her?

She's right, isn't she, Louie?

Sullivan, you print a word of this, and three years of work goes down the pipe.

And Max Hagen continues doing business as usual.

Spare me, Louie. But here's where it's at.

You give us, and nobody else, the whole nine yards. Every bit of it.

And I don't run this story till it's over.

Now, you got a problem with that, pal?

Starting from the beginning, Mr. Paloma, how did Liz Foster get involved with

your operation in the first place?

Liz Foster was part of Hagen's staff in Washington, but I had her brought in

four months ago by a mole I've got planted in Hagen's organization.

To develop evidence you can use against Max Hagen.

Yesterday, she notified us that she had the goods, enough to put Hagen away for

several lifetimes.

But they weren't there. She demanded we double the $100,000 I promised her.

So I put my job on the line with the Attorney General, and I give her what

she wanted.

I'm supposed to meet her at the U.N. this morning, but she doesn't show.

And then that's when I get wind of your difficulties with Hagen.

Then after we talked, she got in touch with you again?

We met in Central Park. I gave her the cash, she gave me the computer disk.

It supposedly contained the information that we needed.

Supposedly?

Everything on there is meaningless.

Total gibberish.

This, uh, mole.

Anybody I might know?

It's a nice try, Sullivan.

So now the $200,000 is gone, Liz Foster is dead, my case against Max Hagan is on

the critical list, and my tail is on the line.

Do we understand each other, Sullivan?

In return for an exclusive, you're not to print a word of this until I'm ready

to move on Max Hagan.

Oh, until you get yourself thrown out on your butt, whichever comes first.

Hey, either way, I got me a great story.

Sullivan, you're such a... Such a what?

Miss Fletcher, I'm sure you regard me as some sort of heartless bureaucrat.

But there are other priorities at issue here.

I can't help but wonder if Liz Foster would have seen it that way.

The classic case of blind ambition.

And it's finally put Louie in the soup, right up to his button-down... What?

What do you got, Jess?

Briony, suppose Liz Foster wasn't murdered by one of Max Hagen's men.

You're thinking Hagen did it himself.

Well, what if somebody knew that she was carrying the $200,000 in cash?

Well, hey, how about if she had real computer disks and actual dirt on Hagen

that somebody could have killed her for them?

Or for both the money and the disks.

Okay, but then why kill her in an elevator?

Maybe that isn't where she was killed.

Sarah, darling, I swear I had nothing to do with that woman's death.

Yes, I wanted to talk to her.

Yes, I was unhappy that she was apparently violating the loyalty that I

expect from my colleagues, the loyalty that they expect of me.

But murder...

Look at me, Sarah.

Can you honestly say you're looking at someone who could do such a thing?

Or order it done?

Because if you can, I'll accept your resignation.

Hell, I'll welcome it.

Damn you, Max.

Thank you, darling. I need your talents now more than ever.

I wish there wasn't all you needed.

It's been a difficult time Sarah perhaps afterwards

Well

according to my sources the police have found nothing that ties a foster woman

to you what about the computer disks

Apparently, they weren't on her body. They may still be wherever she was

staying, but so far we don't have a clue about where it was.

Well, we damn well better find them before the police do.

Now, I want to know where the leak is and who it is.

And I want it shut off.

Okay, Mr. Fletcher, I'm not really arguing.

You were right all along.

But there's no way I'm going to bother Mr. Hagen about this any more than I

already have, so don't think about asking.

Fine, Lieutenant.

Now, you were going to show me her belongings.

Right.

Bag lady. Found them in the dumpster a couple of blocks away from the hotel.

Typical mugger's M.O.

The only fingerprints were the victim's and the bag lady's, and she was fast

asleep in Grand Central Station at the time of the murder.

The reason nobody remembered her at the hotel.

Probably.

I've seen this jacket somewhere before.

In the window of Saks Fifth Avenue.

Now, this is part of a suit.

It has a matching skirt.

Yeah? Lieutenant Galba, I saw the photo that your men took of Liz Foster.

Wasn't she wearing a dark green dress when she was killed?

Yeah. So what?

I don't even know why I agreed to meet you here, Sullivan.

Maybe because Max Hagen wants to know what I know.

That it?

I work for Max Hagen.

He doesn't own me.

Better go easy on that stuff.

Clouds the mind.

Playing that shock tank with Hagen.

Gotta keep all the old synapses firing.

What did you want to talk to me about?

I'm a reporter.

You're a Higgins Press person.

Seems like a fit to me.

So, you ever meet this Liz Foster?

No. Me neither.

She's in a rubber bag where the introductions went around.

The police photos weren't very flattering.

You know a federal prosecutor named Louis Paloma?

I know of him.

Why? I thought maybe you met him somewhere or another. You know,

socially. What's Paloma got to do with Max?

Well, if you don't know, it's not for me to say.

But my instincts tell me you are going to meet him soon.

I want the story when it breaks. And you're as clean as you say you are.

Well, I know how to treat a lady.

In print, anyway.

What do you say?

You got a deal?

I'm scared, Briony.

It's a start.

Housekeeping? Bring up any unclaimed dry cleaning to the front desk.

Hello? Front desk.

No, no, Mrs. Allen, don't you worry. We'll send one of the staff to ride in

the elevator with you.

I'll take care of it immediately.

We're getting a lot of that.

That's Liz Foster's skirt.

This is the only unclaimed piece, sir.

It matches her suit jacket.

Room 1411.

Registered as Mrs. Phillips.

She checked out this morning?

Are you quite sure?

Express checkout.

You just drop your key and your room folder in there.

So nobody would have noticed that it was actually the killer who checked her out?

You know, I think it's possible that she was killed in that room.

Really?

Looking for this, Mrs. Fletcher?

And why shouldn't I be angry? Just up and walk out of my office without a

word, and then I have to follow you to find out where in hell you're going.

Lieutenant, if I had told you where I was going, would you have taken it any

more seriously than you have anything else that I've said?

Well, probably not.

Yeah, one of my men brought it in as you were leaving.

Found it in the trash can near the dumpster.

Well, it certainly could be the murder weapon.

Unfortunately, now that we know where Liz Foster was staying and where she was

probably murdered, it looks as if the housecleaning staff has ensured that

we're not going to learn anything else.

Not necessarily.

Let's see what forensics can come up with.

They'll call when they got something.

But meanwhile, that poor girl's killer could get away, even leave the country.

Hello?

Yes, Lieutenant.

And what did they find?

Well, let me put it this way, Mrs. Fletcher. If my Aunt Florence, a

cleanliness nut, could afford it, I would tell her to stay at the Grand

Palace Hotel.

And they didn't find anything?

We're talking bupkis. Not a single sign that the victim was ever in room 1411. I

mean, not even a hair.

Which puts us back somewhere west of square one.

Maybe not, Lieutenant.

I'm listening.

Look, we know the place is spotless, but the killer doesn't.

Wait a minute.

Say again?

Look, Lieutenant, I'll call you back in a little while.

Briony, am I correct in remembering that Mr. Paloma said he had someone planted

in Mr. Hagen's organization?

Yeah, a mole. Why?

That's it.

That's one.

Where we going?

What do you got?

Out, Mrs. Fletcher, now.

I promise I'll leave if you'll just give me a moment.

Believe me, I don't want to interfere, but I felt I should at least try and

repay your generosity.

Well, it's just that you were so kind to share all that information with Briony

and me, I mean, about your investigation of Mr. Hagen, that I thought it was only

fair to tell you something that I have just learned about the police and Liz

Foster's murder.

Okay, Helen.

Get on with it, Mrs. Slater. Thank you.

I nearly had to twist his arm, but Lieutenant Gelber finally admitted to me

that he's inches away from finding the actual place where Liz Foster was

murdered, and that he's certain that when he does, forensics will find

something, some sort of clue that will lead them to the killer.

So? Well, it seemed to me that if they also find those computer disks, they'll

be in a position to prosecute Mr. Hagen.

And while I really don't know how these things work, it occurred to me that it

might become rather dangerous for your mole.

I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Elizabeth Foster.

You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. I am an

attorney, officer.

I know the routine.

I thought you'd come back here, Mr. Chandler, to make sure you hadn't

overlooked some telltale piece of evidence.

But I never thought that you were ruthless enough to endanger the lives of

hundreds of people by setting the place on fire.

It's called doing what's necessary, Mrs. Fletcher.

Why? For God's sake, Fred.

I mean, we go back what?

Ten years?

Try underpaid, overworked, and hung out to dry.

You think about how many times I begged you to bring me back in, warning you

that they were this close to being on to me, from my ending up at the bottom of

the East River.

But every time it was the same.

Just give us another couple of weeks, Freddy, and we'll have Hagen by his

earlobes. So when Liz Foster panicked, you decided to take advantage of the

situation? It was perfect.

$200,000 in cash and computer disks worth millions to Mr. Hagen. Or the

governorship to Louie.

You lied to me, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn't feel that I had any choice.

I mean, would you have voluntarily told me the identity of your mole?

Wait a minute.

You mean she... I had no way of knowing it was you, Mr. Chandler. But assuming

that Miss Foster wasn't killed by a mugger or Mr. Paloma...

It made sense that the only other person who could have known that she had the

discs and the $200,000 was his mole.

So... you let her con you into smoking me out.

You got that right, pal.

If Jessica hadn't done her number on Louie, he wouldn't have called to warn

you. I love it.

Hey, you know, Lou, the fact that she also flimflammed you into blowing your

case against Hagen... Damn near makes up for my getting caught.

But not quite.

You were in the hotel room when Liz Foster returned from her meeting with

Mr. Paloma?

Phony discs were my idea.

You'd made up your mind to kill her, and the only question that remained was,

how?

I had, uh, built up a relationship with Liz.

Mr. Chandler.

So Paloma bought it?

200,000 in old bills.

And we've got the discs that Max Hagen will pay through the eyeballs for?

After we're in Europe.

Oh, sweetheart.

You know my big mistake?

It was not blackmailing Hagen right away. I would have been safely in Buenos

Aires right now.

No, Mr. Chandler, your big mistake was murdering Liz Foster.

Solomon, about that exclusive.

I'm prepared to fill you in on any details, open my files up to you, that

sort of thing.

As a matter of fact, have some free time first thing in the morning.

Well, thanks, Louie, but this one's kind of writing itself.

My lead's gonna be how...

Lieutenant Artie Gelber cracked the murder case ten days before his

retirement and found in the killer's possession evidence that's going to

allow the New York D.A. to put Max Hagan away for almost 200 years.

Yeah, Mr. Paloma, can you believe he was just carrying those computer disks

around in his pocket?

But don't sweat it, Louie.

After the D.A. is finished with Hagan, you can go after him in the federal

courts. It might even get you nominated for dog catcher.

Elected, I don't know.

You frightened me half to death.

Jump in, Jess.

We're going to celebrate while I take you to the airport.

Ta-da! Oh, you didn't.

Ice cream!

You must have really liked your story on Hagen and Miss Foster.

Liked? Try loved.

His junior that's paying for this Sherman tank.

Smoked like chocolate.

The best.

Yeah.