All language subtitles for MSW - S09E03 - The Mole-1

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?

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...

Someone's here.

I'll contact you.

Damn.

Jessy, 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.

Oh!

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.

Any time, 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.

Well, fascinating.

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

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

Brynie, thank God I found you.

Speak of the devil. Jessica
Fletcher, Jason Nerd.

Herd. Jason Herd. Ma'am.

How do you do?

He's my junior managing editor.

Assistant managing editor.

Whatever.

Nice to meet you.

Brynie, I've got big
problems with your column.

No kidding.

Well, here for instance,

"Let me tell you
about the very rich.

"They are different
from you and me."

What kind of a line is that?

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

Ever hear of him 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 Hecht?

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

Fix it. I'll need it on my
desk by 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.

Ah, nice to meet
you, Mrs. Fleming.

And you, Mr. Herd.

Oh, I'm sorry, Brynie.

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.

This should show up
with mocha ice cream.

Make it a double. Jessica?

Oh! Don't tempt me.

Hey, there. Look there, 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 penchants
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 Hagen?

The philanthropist?
That Maxwell Hagen?

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!

You sure you want
to use me as a model?

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

Nobody can do
what you do, nobody.

Hang of it is, Jess, I don't
know that I could do it anymore.

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

I'm not gonna 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
$1,000,000 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 sakes, 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 it to you
in a couple of days.

Tomorrow.

Max? 9:00 a.m.

How is he tonight?

How would she? 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 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,
you'd better update your resume.

$200,000 and 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 a hundred?

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
2nd 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?

Helen. Yes, Mr. Paloma.

Give me the attorney general.

Oh!

Yes, Mr. Garrity.

Yes, sir, you're
confirmed for an aisle seat.

Yes, sir, that's both ways.
Thank you, Mr. Garrity.

Sorry.

Trans East Airlines,
how may I help you?

On the 12th? Just
a moment, please.

Have a nice flight.

Thank you.

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

Oh!

Ms. Foster, Ms.
Foster, Ms. 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 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, I...

Won't you at least permit me to
explain while I give you a lift back home?

Taxi! Taxi!

Let me do her.

Robert, you're
absolutely right to assume

that there are few things in
this life that cannot be fixed.

But killing a
prominent novelist is...

But... 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...

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

Ah, but Lieutenant,
you admitted that the car

was registered to Max
Hagen Enterprises.

Mrs. Fletcher, I admitted the plate
number you gave me might have been...

Oh, Lieutenant. Look,
look, Mrs. Fletcher.

Are you aware that,
around this town, there are

a lot of people who
refer to him as Saint Max?

I mean, do you realize
that he is a major

contributor to the Police
Benevolent Association?

Yes, Lieutenant.
Okay, Mrs. Fletcher.

Let's suppose you're right, huh?

Yes, let's. Okay.

Let's suppose that it was
Mr. Hagen, okay? All right?

Listen, 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, hold on.

Mrs. Fletcher...

In 11 days, I retire.

Eleven 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 has 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
Ridge Top has got to be my favorite.

Jack Tremont 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 Gelber.

Right, Mr. Hagen, Mrs.
Fletcher alleges that...

Alleges?

That she was abducted
around 12:30 this afternoon.

Might I ask your
whereabouts at that time?

Of course, Fred
and I were in Boston.

Yeah, that's right, Lieutenant,
we returned 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...

Oh, that won't be necessary.

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.

Like I said, I'm sure there's a nice
simple explanation to this whole megillah.

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.

That does not entitle you...

Yes, it does, ma'am.

Come on, this is
ridiculous. Ma'am, please,

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

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

Let's go.

All right, we'll serve
him 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 Hagen.

Now, just a minute, Mr. Paloma.

Sorry for any inconvenience
we may have caused you.

Inconvenience?

Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I
don't have much time.

Now, exactly what happened
between you and Max Hagen?

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
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...

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'm
prepared to do. Yes?

Mr. Sullivan's down here.

Oh, please have him come up.

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

Tell me, Ms. Lloyd,

do you really believe
that Maxwell Hagen is

the solid, unimpeachable 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.

Ms. Lloyd.

Hello, Mr. Sullivan.

Come in.

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

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

There was no sale.

Good. Okay, now go
get yourself all horsed up.

Why?

We're going to a party.

A 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.

I figure if 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 Louis, pure
political animal, ruthless,

and desperate to
make a run for Albany.

And 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 connect.

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 Ms. Foster's room, please?

Bingo! Now that's a lady I'd
like to interview for the record.

I'm afraid she's not registered.

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.

Gelber, what's going on.

Oh, Sullivan, Mrs.
Fletcher. Murder.

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

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

All right.

Pardon me, Lieutenant. You
don't know the victim's name?

Mrs. Fletcher...

Gelber, talk to the
woman. Be a mensch.

She's a Jane Doe. No I.D. 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 she 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.

Right, well, run it past some of the
guests. Maybe she was visiting someone.

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, Gelber.

Mrs. Fletcher was
grabbed by Hagen's people

because she was given
the wrong ticket folder.

They thought she
was Liz Foster. 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 her handbag
and splits. Period.

If that indicates even a remote
connection with Max Hagen,

with somebody named Liz Foster,

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
Louis Paloma was conducting

an investigation of
Mr. Hagen's activities

with special interest
in Liz Foster?

A mess.

Why don't you give Louis a call?

I got a feeling you two
might find a lot to talk about.

And in the hope 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?

Brynie! 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.

Well, 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.

Well, Mrs. Fletcher, Brynie,
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.

Now, I don't have the time, the
energy, or the patience for this. Okay?

Okay. So, then answer
me one question.

The last time I did that,
you cost me an election.

And 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 are an officer
of the US 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 got 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.

My 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, Louis?

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, Louis.

Now, 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 Ms. 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 were on to her.

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 UN
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

that supposedly contained
the information that we needed.

Supposedly?

Everything on there is
meaningless. Total gibberish.

This mole. Anybody I might know?

That's a nice try, Sullivan.

So now the $200,000 is
gone, Liz Foster is dead,

my case against Max Hagen is on the
critical list, and my tail is on the line.

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 Hagen.

Or 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?

Ms. 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.

It's finally put Louis in the soup
right up to his buttoned-down...

What?

What've you got, Jess?

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

You think that
Hagen did it himself?

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

Or, 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.

Sara, 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, Sara.

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 that wasn't
all you needed.

It's been a
difficult time, Sara.

Perhaps afterwards.

Well? According to my sources,

the police have found nothing
that ties the 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.

But 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, Mrs. Fletcher, I'm not really
arguing. You were right all along,

but there's no way I'm
gonna 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.

A bag lady found them in a dumpster
a couple of blocks away from the hotel.

A 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 Gelber, 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,

and in that shark tank with Hagen,
you gotta keep all the old synapses firing.

What did you wanna
talk to me about?

I'm a reporter. You're Hagen's
press person. Seems like a fit to me.

So, you ever meet
this Liz Foster?

No.

Me neither. She was in a rubber bag
when the introductions went around.

The police photos
weren't very flattering.

You know a federal prosecutor
named Louis Paloma?

I know of him. Why?

Well, 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
if you're as clean as you say you are,

well, I know how to treat
a lady. In print anyway.

So what do you
say? We got a deal?

I'm scared, Brynie.

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 check-out.

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? You 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.

Here. 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
gonna learn anything else.

Not necessarily.

Let's see what forensics
can come up with.

Look, 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?

Right.

We're talking bubkes.

Not a single sign that the
victim was ever in Room 1411.

I mean, not even a hair
or a traceable cloth fiber,

which puts us back somewhere
worse than square one.

Maybe not, Lieutenant.

I'm listening.

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

Wait a minute.

Wait a minute. Say again?

Look, Lieutenant.

I'll call you back
in a little while.

Brynie, 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 what? Come on.

Where're we going?
What have 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 Brynie and me, I mean, about
your investigation of Mr. Hagen,

that I though 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, Ms. Fletcher.

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.

Freeze, mister.

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 tell-tale 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, 10 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,

to 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 Ms. 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 governership to Louis.

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 Ms. 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 disks 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 Louis,

he wouldn't have
called to warn you.

I love it.

Hey, you know, Lou, the fact
that she also flim-flammed 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.

The phony disks were my idea.

You'd made up
your mind to kill her,

and the only question
that remained was "How?"

I had to build up a
relationship with Liz.

Mr. Chandler?

So, Paloma bought it?

$200,000 in old bills.

And we've got the disks that Max
Hagen will pay through the eyeballs for.

After we're in Europe.

Oh, sweetheart.

You know my big mistake 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.

Sullivan, about that exclusive.

I'm prepared to fill
you in on any details,

open my files up to you,
if that's worth anything.

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

Well, thanks, Louis. But
this one's kind of writing itself.

My lead's going to 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 DA

to put Max Hagen 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, Louis.

After the DA has finished with Hagen,
you can go after him in the Federal courts.

It might even get you
nominated for dog catcher.

Elected, I don't know.

Oh, Brynie, you
frightened me half to death.

Jump in, Jess.

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

Ta-da. Oh, you didn't.

Ice cream! They must have really liked
your story on Hagen and Ms. Foster?

Liked? Try loved.

It's junior that's paying
for this Sherman tank.

Mocha chocolate, oh...

The best. Yeah.