"We only talked for about fifteen minutes that day. She had to give some of her own blood to be tested for a kind of experimental treatment. She was finishing her juice, getting ready to leave, and they were prepping me to start. Long enough for me to find out what her name was and where she worked."

Mike maneuvered out from behind the stuck cars and into the right-hand lane, crawling back out onto the wet highway. "She wouldn't see me for more than a month. I hadn't realized that there was no hair under her scarf, and she was afraid to tell me. Afraid I wouldn't want to take the next step."

I thought back to my glimpse of the woman in Mike's bed. I had only seen the slender outline of her body beneath the sheet, and the short-cropped brunette hair against the pillow. "What kind of cancer does she have?"

"I'm using the past tense. Had. Val had breast cancer. A very aggressive kind, no family history. They did a mastectomy last year and some radical chemotherapy. She's healthy now."

He paused and looked away from me, out toward the river. "I'm betting on her, Coop."

"Of course you should be. You've got a whole built-in cheering section, for chrissakes. Why wouldn't you think Mercer and Vickee and Jake and I can't be part of this?"

He didn't answer me aloud but nodded his head in assent. Perhaps it had more to do with Mike exposing his own vulnerability to us than keeping Val away from his friends.

"How about next weekend, Jake and I can do a dinner party?"

Mike took his eyes off the road, looked over at me, and chuckled.

"See, I knew I could make you smile. Jake can cook, I'll do the dishes."

"You'll like her. You two can go on and on about Chaucer and Malory and the Cursor Mundi-all that Middle English literature you guys thrive on." The familiar grin was gone now. "She just gets tired easily. We'll make the first one an early night, if you don't mind."

I cursed myself for my glibness about Mike's mysterious woman. I knew and appreciated the blessings of good health and good genes. Last night, while Val was cradled safely in the arms of the man who adored her, I was tramping around the darkened streets of Manhattan in a petulant tantrum, thinking I could enlist Mike's aid like Guinevere summoning her knights. Why wasn't I content to stay at home and talk things through with Jake?

Mike let me out in front of the courthouse and I stopped to buy coffee for both of us before going upstairs to my office. There was a voice mail from Laura telling me that she wouldn't be in today from Staten Island because of the bad weather, and two messages from Jake, asking me to call. The earlier one was solicitous in tone, the second was stern and somber. I ignored both.

This would be a quiet week, with many assistants taking vacation leave during the court hiatus between Christmas and New Year's.

Sylvia Foote was the first to call, confirming the meeting she had set for one o'clock and asking whether I had heard about last night's burglary. Police were once again working their way through the King's College building, even as Foote's animosity toward me once again increased.

Mike walked in as I hung up the phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed Information, asking for Michael's restaurant. The automated voice connected him directly, at the additional cost of thirty cents to the district attorney.

"Good morning. This is Jake Tyler, NBC News. I called last night to book a table for lunch."

"He wanted that private table in the alcove, under the window," I reminded Mike in a whisper.

"That's right, that nice one up front. I won't be needing it after all. I'd appreciate it if you cancel my reservation." He hung up, then took off his trench coat and threw it on a chair. "Make you feel better? At least when he shows up with his secret source, they won't be holding a special place for him."

Mike picked up the phone when it rang again. "Hey, Jake." He looked at me for guidance.

I mouthed the word "no" as clearly as I could.

"Nope. Haven't seen her yet. Think she spent the night with David and Renee. You really put her in some kind of snit, man. Nothing that about three dozen yellow roses and the sight of you on your knees in the slush can't correct. Oh, and the whereabouts of that broad who got whacked this weekend. Call back when you got that, Jake. I'll tell her to give you a buzz when she gets down here."

He pressed the plastic button to end the call and stood with the receiver in his hand as the phone immediately rang again. "Ms. Cooper's office and she really doesn't want to talk to an asshole like you." Mike paused. "Whoops, sorry, Your Honor. I'm new here. Thought you were just another crank caller for the lovely prosecutor."

Mike passed the call to me. "Yes, sir, I do recognize the name. No, I think she's away for the week but I'll be right down. Yes, I'll handle it myself." I gave the phone back to Mike. "Make yourself useful. I've got to go down to AP3. There's a bit of a crisis on one of our old cases and the assistant has the week off."

I slipped the chain with my identification badge around my neck and went to the staircase to wind my way over to the elevator bank that descended to the misdemeanor courtrooms on the fourth floor of the building. My deputy, Sarah Brenner, had been on maternity leave since her baby was born in the middle of the summer, and it wouldn't be soon enough until she returned to the unit. It was impossible to stem the daily flow of incoming mayhem, even in the midst of an ongoing murder investigation.

I entered the rear of All-Purpose Part 3 through the double-swinging doors, and scanned the rows of benches for Juan Modesto. I couldn't spot him anywhere. Judge Fink had asked me to speak with the clerk, and the court officer guarding the entrance to the well of the courtroom unhooked the metal chain and let me through.

When I approached the clerk's desk, she motioned me to lean in so that she could speak to me without disturbing the judge during his plea negotiations with a defendant on a buy-and-bust case.

"Are you familiar with this one?"

"Pretty well," I said, trying to pull up the facts from my memory. "Modesto beat and raped his girlfriend. He's out on bail, pending the indictment. She's been uncooperative, claims he's been threatening her to drop charges or he'll kidnap the baby and take him back to the Dominican Republic. The judge issued an order of protection last time the case was on. I think we asked for an adjournment to late in January, figuring we might be able to change her mind after the holidays.

"Sorry, I didn't have instructions down here today. I honestly didn't know the case was on the calendar."

"It's not. Check this one out. You know what your victim looks like?"

"Yes. I've met her a couple of times." I had spent the better part of an afternoon with her at the beginning of the month, trying to convince her to prosecute. Together with my young colleague who was assigned to the matter, I had reminded her that Modesto's assaults were occurring with greater frequency and causing more serious injury.

"Why don't you take a slow walk back down the aisle. Second row, end seat on your left. Tell me who you think is hiding beneath the wig, sunglasses, and lady's overcoat?"

I made a cautious circle around the busy room, pretending to be in search of a witness, before returning to the clerk's desk. "It's not my victim, if that's what you mean."

"The judge just wanted to be sure. He thinks it's Juan Modesto himself. Marched right up to me, told me she was Lavinia Cabrinas, and that she wanted to ask Judge Fink to drop all the charges against Modesto and vacate the order of protection. We thought the five o'clock shadow and the falsetto voice were a little off for Ms. Cabrinas, so I told 'her' to have a seat. The judge just wants you to confirm it before we call the case."

I turned to check the audience again. "Not even close. I've seen lots of guys beat the rap, but never this way."

"Why don't you wait over here, behind me."

When the plea on the drug possession case was completed, the clerk nodded to the judge, who directed a recall on the Modesto matter, adding it to the day's calendar. The defendant moved to the railing behind the well and repeated his request, in his prissiest imitation of a soft-spoken Latina.

Four court officers surrounded him as Neal Fink, a no-nonsense jurist, ordered him to take off his glasses, which he did without hesitation. The next request was to remove his wig. Modesto froze, and again the judge told him to take off his hairpiece. When he refused to acknowledge the direction a fourth time, the judge told the officers to lift the jumble of black acrylic from the petitioner's head. Two held his arms while the others tugged at the phony curls, pulling them free from the bobby pins that had secured the wig to Modesto's own greasy pompadour.

"Your bail is revoked, Mr. Modesto. Put him in, gentlemen. You are remanded without bail, sir. Miss Cooper, I expect you'll be ready to advance this matter and move to the grand jury most expeditiously. And that you'll be adding the charges of hindering prosecuting and obstructing governmental administration. Can you get this done by the end of the week?"

"We'll do our best, Your Honor."

The last thing I needed now was any diversion from the Dakota investigation. Especially another domestic violence victim willing to give her man a break, ignoring the acute danger of her situation and the lengths to which he would go to escape prosecution.

Mike was playing solitaire at Laura's desk when I came back upstairs. "Battaglia's looking for you. He sounds completely pissed off. Sinnelesi called to complain about the stuff you had taken out of Bart Frankel's office. Battaglia wants a complete accounting of it. Says he's shocked you did that search warrant without running it past the front office first. Bad position to put him in with another elected official. You know the drill. You oughtta go on over and cool him down. I suggested maybe he should put you over his knee."

"Bet he passed on that one."

"Told me I could take the first shot, actually."

"This is one time he'll have to wait for me. No politics slowing down this train."

I opened the Dakota file folder to the sheet of information with all the case names and telephone numbers and dialed the Lockhart home in White Plains. Skip's mother passed me on to the grandfather, who was no doubt in his favorite chair in the solarium.

"Mr. Lockhart? It's Alexandra Cooper."

"He just left, Miss Cooper."

"Who just left?"