"Yes. I would like a photograph of the dead man. He is still with you?"
"Decomposing peacefully," Remo said lightly, dropping the bedding on the dead sniper's waxy gray face. "What do I do with the body afterward?"
"I do not care. But before you dispose of it, I would like fingerprint samples as well."
"Anything else? Blood type? Nose hair clippings? Earwax samples?"
"Remo, this is serious."
"Tell you what, Smitty. Looks like I'm going to have a busy day. Why don't I just ship the guy to Folcroft?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Oh, don't thank me," Remo said sweetly. "I'll even include return correct postage."
"Remo!"
Laughing, Remo hung up. Things were getting better. He had Smith's goat, and Chiun owed him peace of mind for an unspecified period of time and a boon to be named at a later date. No sense squandering that one too soon.
As he took the stairs to the penthouse, Remo thought that he might hold that boon over Chiun's head for a good long time.
When Remo came over the parapet-the only way to the penthouse that didn't involve returning to the lobby and catching the penthouse elevator--Cheeta Ching was interviewing herself.
She stood in a corner of the living room, the minicam in her hands. She was pointing it at her own face and speaking into the directional mike. Her thumb was holding down the trigger.
"For the first time in the history of television, an attempt has been made on the life of a network anchor," she said shrilly. "Only moments ago, in this very room, this reporter narrowly escaped a sniper's bullet. Obviously, the killer had been aiming at my head, and-"
Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju, who stood off to one side with Enrique Espiritu Esperanza and Harmon Cashman, watching the spectacle with varying degrees of disbelief written on their faces.
"How long has this been going on?" Remo asked.
"Since you left," Harmon Cashman murmured. "She actually believes she was the target."
"Maybe that's good. You don't want this kind of bad publicity for the campaign."
"Of course we do," Cashman said instantly.
Remo blinked. "You do?"
"This is better than an endorsement from the President."
Remo looked at Harmon Cashman. Then at Chiun. Chiun shrugged as if to say, "All whites are mad. Did you not know?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza introduced a note of sanity.
"It would be better for all concerned if this embarrassing spectacle did not go out over the air," he said quietly.
"I like your thinking," Remo said. "How about I steal it?"
"I do not like that word. I am a moral man."
"Borrow it, then?" Remo suggested.
"Borrow is good," Harmon Cashman said quickly.
"The trick," Remo said, looking at the white-knuckled way Cheeta Ching was holding the minicam up to her flat face, "will be prying those bony talons from the camera grip."
They decided to wait until Cheeta ran out of tape. The way she was going, only that would bring the selfinterview to a bloodless conclusion.
Meanwhile, Remo filled them in on his attempt to locate the killers.
"They are dead?" asked Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, his cherubic face sad. It was clear that the deaths saddened him. Even the deaths of murderers.
"We do not fail," Chiun said sternly, his wistful eyes on Cheeta's flat profile, as if beholding true beauty.
"What do you see in her?" Remo whispered.
"Grace," said the Master of Sinanju.
Remo thought she looked like Medusa staring down the minicam.
"Unless there are more of these guys in the woodwork, this should be the end of it," he added.
"Have you no idea as to their identity, these two men?" asked Esperanza.
Remo shook his head. "No ID on them. But they looked Hispanic."
"Hispanic?" Harmon Cashman mumbled. "They're our core support. Why would Hispanics want to kill Ricky?"
Remo shrugged. He decided not to mention the Nogeira connection. It would only complicate things. "Maybe they were just crazies," he suggested.
Enrique Esperanza nodded. "Ah, loco. That I understand."
Over in the corner the minicam clicked, and the faint whir of the videotape cartridge came to a stop.
"Oh, damn!" Cheeta Ching swore.
Chiun gasped, as if a priest had loudly passed gas.
"Let me get that," Remo said helpfully, seeing his opportunity.
Cheeta turned. Her eyes took in Remo. They lost their dagger's edge, softened to melting hot-tar blobs.
"Demo!" she squeaked.
"Remo."