"Are you all set for New Year's Eve? I mean, this won't get in the way, will it?"

"I expect it'll be fine." Joan Stafford was giving a dinner party for five couples in Washington. We were going to take a late afternoon shuttle down on Tuesday and spend the night with Joan and Jim, coming back early the next morning now that Mercer and Vickee had included us in their wedding plans.

This was the one holiday I hated. There was such an artificial air about the forced gaiety, and my favorite way of celebrating had always been to stay at home with friends. Joan was a superb hostess, and the idea of laughing and relaxing with her in front of a great fire, dining at her elegant table, then climbing the stairs to curl up for the night in the guest room of her Georgetown town house seemed a delightful way to welcome in another year.

"There's a winter storm warning for tomorrow evening. I guess we can always take the Metroliner."

I was rinsing the dishes when the phone rang for the first time. Take came back into the kitchen and put his arms around me, embracing me from behind and pressing his mouth against the top of my head. "That was Mike, darling."

"I've been waiting for this call." Tears had already formed and I fought them back.

"Bart Frankel died. They disconnected the life support this morning." He tried to turn me around to face him, but I stood at the sink, staring out the window at the gray day while the hot water ran over my hands. "I just want to hold you for a minute, Alex."

I shook my head.

"You're going to have to let me in one of these days." Jake rubbed his hand across my back. "Mike said to tell you he's got the search warrant for Frankel's office. He's on his way to New Jersey to get it signed so he can pick up the evidence this afternoon." He was massaging my neck with his right hand, his left still holding my waist. "This isn't your fault."

I didn't blame myself for Bart's death, but I was pained by the unfortunate chain of events that had been created from the moment Lola placed herself in the hands of Vinny Sinnelesi. She had just wanted to extricate herself from the violent relationship with Ivan Kralovic, but instead had become a pawn in the prosecutor's efforts to stage a sensational vote-getting stunt. So often I had heard Paul Battaglia remind his senior staff that you can't play politics with people's lives. I admired his wisdom.

Bart had clearly been in greater turmoil than anyone knew. Now he had died under circumstances that were at best mysterious, with his reputation tarnished and his debts substantial. And the children, I suddenly remembered, squeezing my eyes shut. There were three children who had to cope with both loss and disgrace.

I leaned over the sink, cupping my hands and filling them with steaming water, holding them against my eyes. "Let's take a walk, okay?"

I held on to Jake's arm as we made our way uptown to the small museum at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventieth Street. I tried to explain my feelings, speaking as the frost grabbed at my breath and formed rings that rose in the icy air. The need to explore the lives of the people whose tragedies came our way took us to intimate places I had no more desire to enter than the deceased would have had to let me in. For me, it was impossible to do this work with a clinical remove. I could evaluate evidence dispassionately, and I could make judgments about witness credibility with precision, but there was an emotional pull that nagged at my heart with every life that was lost.

We strolled through the stunning exhibit, on loan from the Prado in Madrid. When we had seen our fill of royal portraits, we reclaimed our things from the cloakroom and walked around the corner to Madison Avenue for a cup of hot chocolate. We had almost reached home when my beeper went off.

I saw the complaint-room number and stopped in the doorway to take out my cell phone. The supervisor answered and I identified myself. "It's Alexandra Cooper. What's up?"

"There's a woman looking for you. Her name is Sylvia Foote. Says she's a lawyer for King's College. Claims she even has your home number but can't find you anywhere, so I thought you wouldn't mind the beep."

"Not at all." I had given Sylvia all my contact numbers before the window was broken at my apartment, and had forgotten to check my machine in two days. I could have kicked myself. "Did she say how long she's been trying to get me?"

"Just an hour or two. She left a number." I recognized her office phone. "While I have you, Alex, can I ask you something about a case that just came in?" "Sure."

"Cops in Central Park made an arrest this morning around ten o'clock. Locked up a guy in one of the bathrooms for public lewdness and endangering the welfare of a child. Turns out he's a commercial pilot for an international carrier. Supposed to fly to Geneva at six tonight."

"Glad to know he's resting up for the long night ahead of him." "Yeah, the cop told me his penis was on autopilot till they nabbed him. Anyway, the lawyer for the airline is down here kicking and screaming. Wants the case jumped ahead of all the other docketed matters so the Red Baron can be out of here and make the six o'clock flight. They're European-based so there's no backup for him; if he's not out of jail in time, they'll have to put all the passengers on other flights. Can I do it?"

"Does he have a residence here? Any roots, any reason to return?" "Nope."

"Anybody interview the victim yet?"

"Only the cop. Says the kid is terrific, and that there's an adult witness, too. Strong case."

"Don't go through any hoops for the pilot. I hate to inconvenience all those people, but I imagine he won't be in very good shape to rocket that spaceship back home to Switzerland. A day in the pens and a few hours in the courtroom-"

"Not to mention that the press got hold of it already. Mickey Diamond's down here trying to get a photo for the Post to go with his headline story about the pilot and his juvenile joystick. Diamond's usual good taste."

"Just let it take its normal course. And ask for some reasonable bail. If they reroute him to the Far East, we won't ever see this guy again."

I put my phone back in my shoulder bag. "Let's go home. I'll give Sylvia Foote a call." We went back to the apartment and Jake hung our coats, then followed me into the den while I returned Sylvia's message.

"I'm terribly sorry to hunt you down on a Sunday afternoon Alex, but I knew you'd be displeased if I didn't respond to the requests you and Detective Chapman made."

"That's very gracious of you, Sylvia. I didn't expect you to give up your holiday weekend to get those things done."

"I'd like very much to clear this all up before we start a new year. I hadn't any plans for the day anyway. Now, I found out a few hours ago that Claude Lavery is back in-"

"Yes, Sylvia. We actually dropped by to see him yesterday afternoon."

"Oh." Her voice dropped and the enthusiasm she had mustered went with it. "I don't suppose you'll accept the fact that I am trying to cooperate with you. I came over to the school a while ago to write up some reports and I ran into Thomas Grenier, the biologist you've wanted to meet. So we've got almost everyone you need now, haven't we? I gave Grenier the detective's number and told him to call there on Monday."

"Where is he now? Right now?"

"I believe that he's in with the president."

"In Recantati's office?"

"Yes. They've been arguing with each other for the last ten minutes. I can hear them all the way down the hall."

"Can you hold them there for me? Ask them to stay until I get there?"

"Today?"

"Yes, Sylvia. I can hop in a cab and be there in twenty minutes." There was no point waiting until tomorrow to pin down Grenier. At the rate things were happening in the case, I would need all the time available to schedule interviews and examine any files that we might be able to get from Sinnelesi's office. Something had sparked the interest of a few of Lola's colleagues to have them back in the college building when I had not expected to find them there.