"As a matter of fact," Malone said, eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "you're right."
"That's what I thought," Lynch said. "And I decided that, since you were so terribly busy, it could wait until I woke up. Or even until I got down to the station. How about it--buddy-boy?"
"Listen, Lynch," Malone said, "we made a bet. Ten to one. I just want to know if I can come down to collect or not."
"All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you a buck. Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us."
"Good," Malone said. He wondered briefly just what was good about it, and decided he'd rather have lost the money to Lynch. But facts, he reflected, were facts. Thoroughly nasty facts.
"I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere at all. Tell me, Malone, how did you know--"
"Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they're all gone? Vanished?"
Lynch's face reddened. "Sure I'm sure," he said. "Every last one of them is gone. And what more do you want me to do about it?" He paused, then added: "What do you expect, Malone? Miracles?"
Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I--"
"Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you."
"One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully.
Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's just that this guy might have some information--but he won't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or something like that."
"Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?"
"I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman."
Malone nodded. "O.K.," he said. "I'll be right over."
"Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this is--my house or a reception center?"
"Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?"
"How about three o'clock at the precinct station?" Lynch said, "I can have him there by then, and you can get together and talk." He paused. "Nobody likes the cops," he said. "People hear the FBI's mixed up in this, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something."
"I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly.
Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?"