"Not quite. The ADAs went out on a group bender that night, and three of them admitted 'saying something to someone they knew they could trust,' so that brings us back up to five people we have to clear."

"How hard can it be to track them down?" Cates said.

"Tracking them down is easy. We've emailed, texted, and left phone messages-they all know what we want. Pinning them down for a face-to-face is the problem. They'd be happy to phone it in, but these guys lie for a living. We figured we had a better shot at getting the truth out of them if we confront them up close and personal.

"Two of them are coming up here tonight. A third just had an emergency appendectomy, and we can't talk to her till tomorrow. The final two on our hit list are Mick Wilson and one of his flunkies. And you know Mick-he has a bad habit of either not returning messages, or just not giving a s.h.i.t."

"Make him give a s.h.i.t. O'Keefe was taken fifteen hours ago. Hazmat's not going to keep her alive for long. Call me when you-"

"Captain."

It was Katina Hronas, a civilian employee a.s.signed to our unit. Katina fielded hundreds of phone calls, emails, and faxes for Cates every day. She was tuned in to Cates's priorities, both personal and professional, and interrupted the boss only when it was urgent. Cates braced herself for the inevitable.

"This just came through from the chief of D's office," Katina said, handing Cates a single sheet of paper.

"d.a.m.n," she said, reading the small block of text in seconds. "It's out."

Kylie and I looked at each other. We both knew what "it" was.

"We kept the lid on it for nine hours," Cates said, "but the Times just issued an email alert-Rachael O'Keefe Kidnapped Within Hours of Leaving New York City Jail."

"The Times doesn't print rumors," Kylie said. "Who corroborated it?"

"'O'Keefe's abduction was confirmed by her defense attorney, Dennis Woloch,'" Cates read. "Of course they don't say who leaked it, but I'd put my money on Hazmat himself. He loves ink, and the media will give him plenty of it."

"Which means our tip line will be flooded with hundreds of crackpot sightings," Kylie said.

"Not your problem," Cates said. "Commissioner Harries will give me all the manpower I need to deal with the wacko phone calls. All you have to do is find Rachael O'Keefe, take down the Hazmat Killer, and turn Mayor Spellman into a national hero before Election Day. Get on it."

"Best locker room pep talk I ever heard from a coach," Kylie said as we left Cates's office. "It's just what I needed to finally start giving a s.h.i.t about this case."

By nine o'clock, two of the errant a.s.sistant DAs showed up and swore up and down that they never talked to anyone about Rachael's hideaway in Jersey. Neither one of them hedged, hesitated, or in any way held back. They were telling the truth.

"Three to go," Kylie said. "I move we adjourn for the night. All in favor..."

I was about to vote aye when the elevator stopped on our floor. Red has its own s.p.a.ce on the third floor of the One Nine, and we don't get too much traffic-especially at this hour.

The doors opened, and out stepped the last two people I'd have expected to show up at our office. The ones John Dho called Defectives Donovan and Boyle.

They walked toward our desks, scowls still on their faces, chips still on their shoulders, and brooms still planted firmly up their a.s.ses.

"We figured you'd still be here," Donovan said.

"That's the thing about these serial killer cases," Kylie said. "You don't get to punch out early. What are you doing here?"

"What do you think? Catch us up."

"On what?" Kylie.

He laughed. "On what? On the f.u.c.king case. Look, you may be calling the shots, but this has been our case from the get-go, and we're not walking away from-"

Boyle held up his hand. "Calm down," he said to his partner. Then he turned to Kylie. "I guess you can tell we're still a little out of joint, but it's not your fault. It's just politics, so let's start over. Okay?"

"Go for it," Kylie said. "It couldn't get any worse."

"Look," Boyle said, "me and Donovan were blindsided Monday morning. Hazmat was our case. We did the best we could, but let's face it-the first three victims were all sc.u.mbags, and n.o.body complained that we hadn't caught the killer. Then Parker-Steele gets whacked, and the case is page one. Now Rachael O'Keefe gets kidnapped, and the whole thing is going global."

"We don't have any proof that O'Keefe is connected to Hazmat," Kylie said.

"The Post doesn't have any proof either," Boyle said, "but they're going with it anyway-home page of their online edition. The point is, Hazmat is even bigger than before, and we don't want to be known as the two schmuck cops that couldn't crack it. Monday you said we were a.s.signed to this so-called task force of yours. If we're still on it, catch us up."

"Fair enough," Kylie said. "We found a witness who saw Parker-Steele get into a car."

"Did they ID the car, or the driver?" Donovan asked.

"There were two suspects," Kylie said. "She got into the backseat with a man, but the witness couldn't see who was driving."

"Two suspects?" Boyle said.

"You sure?" Donovan said. "We've been looking for one."

"And we also have another witness who saw Alex Kang get into a car with two guys," I said.

They both looked bowled over.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Donovan said. "You got lucky. We couldn't find a witness for s.h.i.t in Chinatown. What kind of car?"

"A black SUV. No make, no model," I said.

"How about the two men?" Donovan said. "You get a description on them?"

"Just two average white guys like you and me," I said.

"How about O'Keefe? Anything on her?"

"Two guys took her, so the Post may be right. It's probably the Hazmat team."

"You closing in on them?"

"Not closing in," I said, "but getting closer. We just got some fresh evidence."

"Fresh evidence like what?" Donovan asked.

"The two who took O'Keefe left a trail. We're on it, but that's all we can tell you right now."

Boyle nodded. "Hey, I know we didn't get off on the right foot, but if you're closing in on these guys, you're gonna need backup, right?"

"Probably," Kylie said.

Boyle shrugged. He knew that "probably" was as much of a commitment as he was going to get.

"Hey, man, you've got our cell phones," he said. "Call anytime."

Chapter 60.

Donovan and Boyle got on the elevator, and Kylie and I waited quietly as they rode to the ground floor.

"I didn't trust those two when they were trying to undermine us," she said as the elevator doors opened with a loud clunk that reverbed up the shaft. "I trust them even less now that they want to help."

"Technically, I think only Boyle wants to help," I said. "Donovan would probably be happier finding us stuffed into a couple of Hazmat suits. I can't believe they pulled a good cop/bad cop routine on us."

"I'm still trying to figure out if they're smart cops or stupid cops," she said.

"I vote stupid."

"We came up with more leads in three days than those bozos did in four months," she said, "so on the surface they come off as pretty lame."

"And you think there's something below the surface?"

"Let's just say Cheryl is right, and we're looking for real cops. If Donovan and Boyle are the doers, then they managed to set themselves up as lead detectives by committing the first murder in their jurisdiction. That's not just smart, it's brilliant."

"How do you explain the fact that they showed up tonight to pump us for details on the case? Don't they know that's the fastest way to move to the top of the suspect list? Sounds pretty dumb to me."

"It's only dumb if they know we're looking for dirty cops," she said. "Right now there are only four people who know we're thinking that the killers are NYPD. You, me, Cheryl, and Cates. These guys may be a lot smarter than they act. I think they threw a s.h.i.t fit when we grabbed the case away from them, and they did everything they could not to help us. Then they realized that freezing us out freezes them out. So they decided that offering to be our backup is the best way to stay in the loop and keep tabs on the investigation."

"I don't care if they're dumb or smart. If they're keeping tabs on us, maybe we should keep tabs on them."

Kylie lit up. "Zachary Jordan, are you talking about tailing those guys?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think Captain Go-by-the-Book would approve of our putting a team on them?" she said.

"Maybe yes, maybe no," I said.

"Probably no."

"It doesn't matter, because I'm not asking her. Right now I don't give a d.a.m.n what she says."

"Listen to the straight arrow talking," she said, giving me a big grin. "And I thought I was the only cop around here with a reputation for going off the reservation."

Long before she showed up at Red, Kylie was notorious for breaking the rules any time she felt they were working against her. And although the bra.s.s frowns on rogue cops, she always got the job done, so they always looked the other way. Donovan and Boyle smelled rotten, and I was ready to nail them-chain of command be d.a.m.ned.

"You heard the mayor this afternoon," I said. "Whatever we f.u.c.king have to do 'd.a.m.n well better happen before Election Day.' Did that seem like a casual comment?"

"h.e.l.l, no. It sounded like a direct order from the top of the food chain. I love the way you think," she said. "Way to go, partner."

She picked up her desk phone and dialed. "h.e.l.lo, it's Kylie. Oh man, I'm so glad you're still there. Can I swing by?"

Whatever the response was, it made her laugh. "Great. I'll pop round in a minute."

She bolted for the door.

"You mind telling me where you're going?" I said.

"Matt Smith's office. I'll be back in five."

And with that she was gone.

I just sat there fuming, as though the girl I'd brought to the dance went home with someone else.

Matt Smith? Way to go, partner.

Chapter 61.

Joe Salvi stared at the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. His mother would have dumped it in the garbage before she would have fed it to Papa. Then his eyes shifted to the woman who had just served it to him.

Teresa was standing at the kitchen counter, opening another bottle of wine. She stopped to kick off her eight-hundred-dollar five-inch heels. Good idea, Teresa. A lady doesn't want to fall on her a.s.s when she's swilling down her second two-hundred-dollar bottle of Bruno Giacosa Barolo.

Forty-one years ago she had been the perfect wife, delivering on all three of the only characteristics his mother told him were important. Good in the kitchen, great in the bedroom, and Catholic.

Mama was gone now. And so was Teresa. They still shared a bedroom, but the s.e.x was no longer spectacular. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't any good. Like the sauce.

She had drifted away slowly. She said it was because he was so wrapped up in his work.

His work? What did she think paid for all this? The house? The cars? The clothes? The jewelry? The charities? She gave his money away to whoever had a hand out, and they put her on a pedestal. Fine, if that's what she needed. But where did she think the money came from? It came from his work.

"Did I tell you she's remarried now?" Teresa said.

She had been droning on, but he had tuned her out.

"Yes, you told me," he said. Twice.