"Sure. I just don't see where you come in. You can't make a living at it, right?"

"If you mean financially, perhaps not. At least I didn't necessarily believe so at the time. I don't need money- the software brings in more than I could ever spend. And I have new versions in development all the time." He leaned forward in his chair, eyes behind the glasses right on me, dropping the lofty superior tone for tightavoiced intensity. "But eventually I found my way down a new path. To a branch of the syndrome with profound implications not just for individuals, but for our entire society."

He paused, waiting for me to respond. I stayed flat as a dead man's heartbeat. I recognized him now.

"Do you believe that selfarighteous bilge that 'kids never lie about child sexual abuse?' Surely you understand that children are no different than anyone else- they can lie quite convincingly if there's something in it for them."

I played it in my head: kids lying when there was something in it for them. That was true- who knew it better than me? Remembering all the lies I told just to live to see another day of pain. I kept my face on audienceamode, not saying anything.

"Allegations of child sexual abuse," Kite intoned. "The nuclear weapon in divorce cases, the staple of talk shows, the darling of the tabloids. Absolutely pandemic. And when those allegations are false, a greater threat to the fabric of our culture than AIDS, cancer, and cocaine combined!"

I hit the button sequence on the cell phone in my pocket, still waiting.

Kite took a breath. "Do you have any...reaction to what I just said, Mr. Burke?"

"I heard it before," I said. "That backlash stuff has been around for years."

"It's worse than that now," he said, still leaning forward. In America today, what's going on is nothing less than the Salem witch hunts! Am I right or wrong?"

"You're wrong."

He snapped back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knees. "How so?" he asked, the superior tone back in place, a law professor dealing with a notatooabright student.

"In Salem," I said softly, "there were no witches. And child sexual abuse isn't the nuclear weapon in divorce cases- lying is."

He went quiet, watching me. I felt the hologram shift form somewhere to my left, but I kept my eyes straight on him. A minute passed. "Yes," he said finally, the superior tone vanishing. "That's right. And that's the problem. That's why I asked you to come here." He stood up suddenly, turned his back to me, looking out the window. "Now we can talk. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?"

"A glass of water."

"Certainly," he said, still looking out the window. "Heather!"

I heard the tap of her heels as she walked out of the room.

She was back in a couple of minutes, holding a brass tray in one hand. On the tray, a glass tumbler, a bowl, and a pitcher, all in the same shade of pale blue. The bowl was full of ice cubes, the pitcher held what looked like water. She bent so sharply at the waist that she had to look up at me from under her eyelashes, showing me a flash of orange and some remarkable cleavage. "Ice?" she asked.

"Please."

She plucked three cubes from the bowl with her fingers, orange fingernails catching the light from the window. Then she carefully poured from the pitcher until the glass was full.

"Thank you," I said.

She took the full glass off the tray, held it to her mouth, tilted it back and drained it dry. "It's very good water," she said in that husky voice. "Good for you." Then she filled the glass again and handed it to me.

I took a sip just as Kite got to his feet, pulling a thin silver tube from his jacket pocket. He nodded at Heather. I heard the clack of a slide projector and a giant color photograph appeared on the flat black wall over the computer display. An infant, maybe a year old? Facing away from the camera, wearing a diaper. On the baby's back, two heavy lines parallel to his spine. And radiating from the spine, heavy dark marks- as though a giant had placed his thumbs on the baby's chest, wrapped his hands around the little body and squeezed.

The silver tube was a laser pointer. The hairathin red line pointed out the marks, tracing their path down the baby's back. "What do you see, Mr. Burke?" Kite asked.

I told him.

He made a sound like a contemptuous snort. "What you are in fact seeing, Mr. Burke, is the result of an Oriental practice known as 'cupping.' It is called cheut sah, or, occasionally, cao gio. The practitioner, usually an elder, takes a coin- often coated with Tiger Balm- and scratches specific patterns in the skin. Notice how dramatic and symmetrical the marks are?" he said, using the laser pointer to emphasize his crisp words. "This is a timeahonored treatment for infant illness. The opposite of child abuse. What you see is a centuriesaold cultural practice, but the amateur- some caseworker, for example- would certainly conclude otherwise."

Kite walked back to his chair like a defense attorney who had just scored a major hit on crossaexamination, basking in the glow of Heather's admiration. I used the opportunity to glance at the white wall. Now the image was a bird, a raptor of some kind, hovering high above a seascape, hunting with its eyes.

Suddenly, he looked up to face me. "A child, say a boy, four years old. He says a man down the street, a neighbor who has lived in the community for years, told him he had a puppy in his house and would show it to him. The man took him into his basement and fondled him," Kite said suddenly, looking at me. "Medical examination is negative. A therapist says the boy is suffering from some form of depression. He's blunted, mopes around, doesn't like to play with his friends anymore. Mother says he has nightmares, wakes up screaming. The man says he's talked to the boy a few times, but he never took him into his house. And never laid a hand on him. They ask you to talk to the boy, find out what really happened. What's your move?"

"That's all the information I've got?" I asked him, my voice as flat as his.

"That's all."

"You want me to go through the whole routine? Winning the kid's confidence, making him feel safe, taking my time...all that?"

"No. In fact, let's make it you get to ask him one question. One question only. What would that be?"

I took a minute, pretending I was thinking about it. Finally, I tilted my head back so I was looking at the ceiling. A pure, uniform offawhite, as seamless as a sociopath's story. "What did the basement look like?" I said.

"Yes!" Kite said, clenching a fist. "Didn't I tell you?" he challenged, looking over my shoulder at the woman. "Mr. Burke is our man. Good research never lies."

The woman bowed her head, like she just heard the Truth.

"I have been told you are a master interrogator," he said, turning his gaze back to me.

"By who?" I asked him.

"Mr. C.," he said smoothly, laying down a trump card with a flourish. Mr. C., the Mafia don who paid me ten thousand dollars once. Just to come to a meal, listen to what some man I didn't know said. And tell Mr. C. if he was saying the truth. He wasn't.

"Anyone else?" I asked him, not showing he'd scored a hit. Not on my face, anyway.

"Oh yes, Mr. Burke. Numerous others. Heather..."

I heard the tap of her spike heels again. Another tapping then. Computer keys. Then the quiet whirring of the laser printer. I worked the cell phone signal again. The woman walked briskly past me, a long piece of paper in her hand. She handed it over to Kite, not bending over this time. Stood standing next to him, hipashot, arms folded under her breasts. The backs of her arms were thick with muscle, her legs were poweracurved, calves bulging hard against her stockings. He glanced over the paper, gave her a curt nod. She walked off. When I heard her heels stop clicking, I knew she was back in position again, somewhere behind me.

He handed the paper to me. A list.

A babyaraper sitting in the Brooklyn House of Detention. His 18aB lawyer thought he was innocent. Asked me to come along on an interview so I could get the facts, start looking around. I talked to the freak. And he finally told the lawyer all about what he'd done. A sick man, he said he was.

A Teflonaslick pedophile, computeranetworked. In a lovely brownstone, safe and secure. We danced and dueled. Ended up trading. I got what I needed. He got what he thought was a free pass the next time he fell.

A guy who hired me to find out who raped and killed his wife. He thought he could trust me- after all, I was working for him. Twice stupid.

A long list. And you couldn't get that stuff just by having a friend on the force or bribing some clerk.

"Good job," I said, not pretending.

"I always do a good job," he said.

"Say what you want," I told him, glancing at my watch, making sure he saw the move.

"Can't you guess?"

"Somebody said they were sexually abused. Some kid, I guess. And you want me to prove they're lying."

"No, Mr. Burke," he said, talking in measured tones, making sure I heard every word. "I want you to prove they're telling the truth. I know your time is valuable. And I've used a good deal of it this afternoon. Heather will give you a representative sampling of my work on the syndrome. I'd like you to look it over. When you're ready, give me a call. Then we'll talk again. Fair enough?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for your time," he said formally. He got to his feet and walked out of the room.

I sat there, waiting. The woman came over to me, handed me a thick red folio, its flap anchored by the string looped between two circular tabs. "It's all here," she said.

I got up, followed her to the wroughtairon door. She didn't say goodbye.

"You okay, mahn?" Clarence asked, as I climbed into the back seat.

"Yeah," I told him, not sure myself.

"What did the man want, then?"

"Offered me a job. At least, that's what he said."

"Our kind of work?" the West Indian asked. Meaning: did he want something stolen or someone scammed. Or shot, maybe.

"I don't think so," I said. "Hard to tell. But I think I know who to ask."

I never opened the red file folder. It sat on my desk like an ashtray a kid makes for his mother in school- a mother who doesn't smoke. No point reading the stuff until I knew who wrote it.

It took four days to set up the meet. Wolfe wasn't chief of CityaWide Special Victims anymore. Couple of years ago, three college boys slipped a little chloral hydrate into a sorority girl's drink at a frat party. When she passed out, they took her down to a basement they had all fixed up. When she came to, she was tied up, penetrated by all three of them at the same time. The games went on for a long time. Thirtyasix minutes, to be exact. Easy enough to prove that. Easy enough to prove it all- the boys had it on videotape.

When they were done, they dumped her on the front lawn of the sorority house. Naked. Bleeding a little bit from where they used the broomstick. The house mother called everybody except the police, but one of the other girls finally got the victim to a hospital.

The rape kit came up aces. Lots of sperm, and the boys were all secretors. The hospital took nice closeaup photos too. You could see the bruising and the inflammation so clearly that some freak would probably pay a good price for it- good tortureaporn stuff is always in high demand.

Nobody thought to test the victim's blood. They figured she'd been drunk, never suspected anything else. Everything was quiet until one of the rapists' frat brothers saw the video at a beer party. It didn't turn him on. It made him sick- he had a sister of his own. He took it to the cops.

Wolfe played the video for a grand jury. The boys were indicted for the whole boataload: Rape One, Sodomy One, Aggravated Sexual Abuse, Unlawful Imprisonment....They were looking at about a thousand years apiece on paper- maybe eight and a third to twentyafive in real life...if some whore judge didn't give them probation.

The boys said she was a nympho. Begged them to do it. Hell, told them how to do it. The video...well, they had that lying around, sure. But making the movie, that was her idea. Even asked them for a copy. "SHE ASKED FOR ROUGH SEX, SAY COLLEGE BOYS!" screamed the headline from the same paper that called a thirtyafiveayearaold teacher "Classanova" for having sex with one of his fourteenayearaold students. New York: No jungle was ever so savage. Or so cold.

The boys' parents put together a whole team of lawyers- a whiteashoe firm to negotiate a civil settlement, a couple of hardball criminal defense guys to explain what was going to happen to the girl if she was stupid enough to take the stand. They offered a sweet package- let the boys plead to a bunch of misdemeanors, take probation, do some community service, maybe even some sensitivity training in "gender boundaries." And they'd pay for whatever therapy the girl needed, say a quarteramillion dollars' worth. After all, she was a sick kid, but the boys were still willing to take responsibility for their part in the whole sad affair.

Wolfe had the girl with a therapist. A good, strong therapist who was a warrior in her own fashion. She got the girl ready to face it all- ready for war. Wolfe told the pack of lawyers she was going to do to the boys what they'd done to the girl. Only it was going to last a lot longer.

Then Wolfe got taken off the case. In fact, they pulled the whole thing right out of her unit. Gave it to a kid who'd never tried a sex case before. A kid who'd gone to the same school where it all happened.

Wolfe told them they were tanking the case. They told Wolfe to shut up. Wolfe told them where to stick it and went to the papers.

Accusations flew.

Wolfe got fired.

The case went to trial.

The boys were acquitted.

Wolfe was the best sex crimes prosecutor anyone had ever seen. Every cop in the city knew it. They all said if Wolfe had handled the Simpson case, O.J. would be working on a life sentence instead of his golf game. But nobody would hire her after the unpardonable sin of standing up. If you work for the D.A.'s Office, you can be a drunk or a fool, a moron or a pervert. You can be late to work, screw up cases, have sex with your secretary...it doesn't matter, if your hooks are good. But you have to go along to get along, fall to your knees when the bosses snap their fingers.

Wolfe wouldn't do that, so they threw her whole life in the garbage for payback.

The rest of the staff got the message. None of the others in her old unit stood up except her pal Lily, the social worker, who only worked there as a consultant anyway. Wolfe formed a new crew. Started working campus investigations: date rape, sexual harassment, stalking. The schools hire her on a perajob basis- she'll never have another boss besides herself.

But there was something else. Something I'd picked up from the whisperastream that flows just under the city's streets. The word said she'd gone outlaw after being fired, running her own intelligence cell, picking stuff up from the deep network she'd established when she was head of CityaWide...and selling it.

You can't trust everything you hear from the underground- the whisperastream vacuums up everything, gold to garbage.

But I knew who to ask.

"I can place the face," the Prof said to me out of the side of his mouth, "but the crew is new."

We were on a bench in the park next to Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. A beautiful fall day, late September but still warm enough for the "Look at me!" crowd to display a lot of skin. The Prof was looking across to a parking lot where a tall woman with long dark hair was getting out of a battered old Audi sedan. She was wearing a white jumpsuit, a white beret set on her head at a jaunty angle. It was a good fifty yards away, but I could make out the distinctive white wings in her hair. I recognized the barrelabodied Rottweiler she held on a short leash too. Wolfe. And the infamous Bruiser.

"You got them all?" I asked.

"One on the left," the Prof said. "With all the kids."

I took a glance. A small girl with long straight dark hair, surrounded by a pack of children. She was wearing a baggy pair of redaandawhiteastriped clown pants and a white Tashirt with some writing on the front. Big words, red letters. A beret on her head too; red. She had the kids bouncing around in some kind of snake dance, all of them laughing and waving their arms, following her lead. Black kids, white kids, Latino kids, Oriental kids...dozens of them, it looked like. The girl took a quick runaup and launched into a cartwheel, bounced up and clapped her hands. The kids all tried it at once, a riot of color tumbling over the grass. Adults stood back and watched, respectful of the magic.

"Catch the backup?" the Prof asked, tilting his chin at a big rangyalooking man in jeans and a cutaoff black sweatshirt, his long lightabrown hair tied in a ponytail. He had an athlete's build, stood with his hands open at his sides. Moving to the back of the watchers, rolling his shoulders, his hands empty, the man never took his eyes off the girl in the clown pants.

"Karate man?" I asked.

"Or boxer," the Prof replied. "Something like that. He ain't strapped, but he's got the broad wrapped, no question."

A young woman came down the path, a mass of darkablonde hair spilling out from under a purple beret. Lemonayellow bicycle shorts were topped by a white Tashirt with red lettering, same as the girl in the clown pants. She had a cell phone in a sling over one shoulder, a vanilla ice cream cone in the other hand. At her side was a lightatan dog with a white blaze on its chest- looked like a pit bull with uncropped ears. The dog moved with a delicate, mincing gait, its big head swiveling to watch anyone who got close.

The blonde stopped, dropped to one knee, held the ice cream cone inches from the dog's snout. The beast didn't move a muscle, feral eyes somewhere in the middle distance so it wouldn't be tempted to break the command. Then the blonde said something and the dog snapped the entire head off the ice cream cone in one happy snatch. The blonde stood up and kept walking, nonchalantly munching on what was left of the cone.

The girl got near enough for me to read the lettering on her shirt: the same DON'T! BUY! THAI! I'd seen on the woman at Boot's joint. I knew what that was about- I'd seen the same shirt a dozen times since. There's been a boycott going against anything made in Thailand for a while now. They sell babies for sex in Thailand. "Kiddie sex tourism," they call it. A whole lot of folks figured it out a long time ago: they sell babies for money, you choke off their money, maybe they'll stop it. Me, I'd rather choke off their air supply, but their neck's too thick.

The young woman stopped a few feet away from us, the dog halting next to her, regarding us with that flat disinterested stare that all the really dangerous ones have. The dog's short, muscular body was wrapped in one of those layered workout shirts, pink on top with just a hint of white around the neckline. When she sat up, I could read what was printed on the chest of the jersey. "IF YOU CAN READ THIS, CALL 911."

"What kind of dog is that?" I asked her.

"She's an AmStaff," the woman said. "An American Staffordshire Terrier."

"Looks like a pit bull to me," I told her.

"They were originally the same," she said, like she had all day to explain. "Petey, you remember, from the Little Rascals? He was the first AmStaff. They're like the show version of the pits. Sweeter too, right, Honey?" she cooed.

The dog responded to her name with a soft snarl. The woman stepped closer. Her face was lovely: huge eyes, peachesaandacream skin. But her mouth was straight and serious- I didn't need the beret to tell me she was with Wolfe.