9:45 a.m., Sunday

15 minutes earlier

'Okay,' Kepler said, looking up from his phone. 'The address is Madison at Eighty-Eight.'

'And what's that supposed to be?' Surani asked.

'Charles Prescott's girlfriend.' He looked down at a sheet of paper. 'Sonia Dietrich.'

'This is all very f.u.c.king complicated,' Surani griped.

'You've been cussing a lot lately,' Kepler said. 'Not like you.'

'Not like me? Because people of South Asian heritage that's Indian to you, but not your kind of Indian don't swear? People who work in call centers don't swear?'

'That's racist,' Kepler said indignantly. 'What do you mean, "my kind of Indian"? I don't go to the casinos.'

'Casinos?' Surani riposted. 'My point exactly. There you go.' His gray-complexioned face turned to his partner with a look of smug triumph. He took off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair.

Kepler was continually surprised at how his partner could be so slim, yet so muscular. The man played soccer most weekends. Cricket sometimes, a game Kepler simply couldn't get his head around.

Thinking he really should get serious about the golf, Kepler waved his hand, which meant the argument was over.

A figure appeared in the doorway of the operations room.

'Ah, it's Rookie Three-name,' Kepler said, eyeing the name badge.

'Fred Stanford Chapman reporting for duty,' the young blond officer said; his tone evidenced a bit of att.i.tude, Kepler thought.

'And, if you're interested, for the record, I swear all the f.u.c.king time,' said the kid, who'd apparently overheard the conversation. 'Anyway, swearing isn't swearing anymore. It's different.'

Att.i.tude ...

Kepler gave him a that's-not-funny-so-watch-yourself look. Blondie shut up and decided not to offer what he'd been about to, whatever it was.

'All right, Fred Stanford Chapman-'

The rookie said, 'Why don't you call me Stosh? It's-'

'Naw, you're definitely a Fred Stanford Chapman,' Kepler said, like he was bestowing an honorary t.i.tle.

'Definitely,' Surani echoed.

'Now. Listen up.' Kepler briefed the Patrol officer on the Charles Prescott Op and, even though he remained a little smart-a.s.s around the eyes, the kid seemed to get it. And even made a few good suggestions.

Then Kepler said, 'Let's get some breakfast. Something big.'

'And expensive,' Surani added.

Kepler let drop, 'We'll charge it to Patrol. Our Viking warrior here'll sign for it.'

The kid was silent for a moment. He'd be thinking that even on stake-out operations he had to buy his own food. 'Me?'

'This case is so f.u.c.ked up excuse me, Gandhi,' Kepler said, with a look at Surani, who gave him the finger yet again, 'that we need some b.l.o.o.d.y Marys too. Or, h.e.l.l, Champagne.'

'Champagne?' The rookie was dying.

Kepler gave it a whole ten seconds. Then said, 'We're f.u.c.king with you, Fred Stanford Chapman.'

'Yeah.' And he tried to look as if he'd known that all along.

'We got time for coffee, that's it. We go to ... What's the address again?'

'Madison and Eighty-Eight.' He added, to the new member of the team: 'That's where Prescott's concubine's supposed to be.'

The young officer said, 'A concubine is a woman who exists in a marriage-like relationship but's unable to marry her lover, usually because of a difference in social cla.s.s. You wouldn't really have concubines in America. Fewer cla.s.s issues, you know.'

Both the detectives stared at him.

The kid blushed. 'I'm just saying.'

'Jesus Christ,' Kepler muttered. 'Now you're definitely buying.'

Surani, the more-or-less voice of reason, said, 'Let's get a move on.'

The detectives waited, continuing to stare at the patrolman.

'What?' The kid's voice nearly broke.

Surani frowned. 'You weren't listening?'

'How's that?'

'The briefing. Just now.'

'I was, yeah.' But he looked uncertain, as if he maybe hadn't been listening as much as he ought to've been.

'Forget about that?' Kepler pointed to a bulletproof vest, sitting on a table near the door.

'I'll pa.s.s,' the young officer said. 'Sweat like a pig in one of those. Besides, what could go wrong?'

CHAPTER.

22.

9:30 a.m., Sunday

15 minutes earlier

They sat together on the edge of the unmade bed, sheets warm and twisted, concentric, like hurricane clouds seen from s.p.a.ce.

Their legs touched.

'We should check out soon,' Daniel Reardon said. He was looking down at Lexington Avenue as if Joseph or a crew of other killers searching desperately for the October List were stationed outside. His bag was packed.

'All right,' Gabriela said absently. She rose and began gathering up her things, stuffing them back into the gym bag. Dark blue with a red Nike logo on the side. Did Nike still use that logo? she wondered. And the tag line: Just do it ...

She'd brought very little with her, apart from the files, and she was soon finished. She was aware of Daniel looking her over. Blue jeans and a V-neck green sweater over a cream-colored silk camisole. A light gray L.L. Bean windbreaker. Daniel was in a new outfit as well a suit, like yesterday. Dark gray. Italian. It was perfectly pressed. He wore no tie, a concession of some sort to the weekend. The scent rising from the cloth was astringent dry-cleaning chemicals but she sensed a subtext of aftershave, lotion and musk. Shoe polish too. He was fastidious about his shoes. The combination was, for some reason, extremely arousing.

Yes, they should check out, Gabriela reflected. But she didn't want to. She wanted to stay here. Close to him.

Very close.

This was absurd under the circ.u.mstances. Yet, for the moment, the feeling of desire and the possibility of a deeper, searingly hot connection enveloped her.

It was then that he pulled her closer, his right hand easing like a silk scarf around her neck. She resisted but only for the briefest of moments. Lips yielding and surging, tastes joining, heat rolling from skin to skin. The more she relaxed, the harder her gripped her.

And she sensed that irresistible uncoiling within her.

Another embrace, bordering on pain. Then he was backing away. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.' Though he didn't seem the least bit contrite.

Despite virtually seeing the name Sarah emblazoned in her mind, Gabriela said softly, 'Yes, you should have.' And she kissed him once more.

'Let's get breakfast and keep going through our homework.' A glance at the doc.u.ments. 'We've got a half million dollars to find.'

She nodded but found herself tempted once more to pull him down on the bed next to her. She easily pictured what would follow. Daniel was sensual, with a taut body she'd seen and felt enough of it already. A firm, unyielding grip. Lips the right combination of firm and soft. He'd have a playful tongue and he'd use it frequently; he was a man who would enjoy taste as well as touch. He would press her down on the bed, pinioning her, which despite her obsession with control she curiously enjoyed never been able to figure that one out and then he'd devour her, one hand on her thigh, one on her breast. He'd be unrelenting, possessive, domineering.

And the warmth and pleasure, like drugs, would continue, growing and growing until the end would be pretty quick for her.

G.o.d, she wanted that.

A string of mismatched lovers stretched out behind her.

Mismatched and worse.

But, as tempted as she was, she forced the fantasy away and ignored the warm sheets, the scents of him, the memory of his hands and mouth.

Priorities.

Goals.

The name 'Sarah.'

CHAPTER.

21.

8:30 a.m., Sunday

1 hour earlier