“Yes. The Marcotts. They work during the day, but maybe somebody’s home. Maybe they saw something.”

“We’ll check it out, Judge.” Wiederseim shrugged. “Good thing you had your alarm on. You’d be surprised, the number of people that have ’em and don’t use ’em.”

“I bet.” Cate still felt troubled, but kept it to herself. “How often does something like this happen in this neighborhood?”

“All the time, you just don’t hear about it. We had a burglary on Delancey Street last week. They got in through the back door, there, too.”

“Really?” Cate was thinking about Russo, but she wasn’t about to broach the subject with a member of the Philadelphia Police Department. “I wonder if we could keep this with the Philly cops. We don’t need to extend the jurisdiction, if you know what I mean.”

Officer Wiederseim smiled. “I’m not calling in the feds, if that’s what you mean. They’d turn this thing into a federal case.”

“Yes. I don’t want this blown out of proportion.” Cate nodded. Then the visit from Russo would come out, and the videotape with Partridge. “Come on, let’s go in. Too cold to stand out here.” Cate opened the door, and Wiederseim followed her inside, jiggling the broken knob. “I have to go back to court and I can’t leave the house open, like this. I guess I better get a locksmith, right away.”

Wiederseim cocked her head. “We can board it up for you for the time being. Then reset the alarm and you’ll be good to go. It’ll take about twenty minutes, tops. We’ll have you back in court in no time.”

Gilkenny nodded. “You got any lumber? A couple two-by-fours?”

Cate brightened, getting the hang of the VIP thing. “In the basement, I think. This way.” She led them to the basement stairs, off the kitchen.

Officer Gilkenny said, “Judge, what’s Mariska Hargitay really like?”

“She’s great,” Cate called back.

But that wasn’t the detective she was thinking of.

An hour later, Cate was back in the car, driving up Market Street to the courthouse. It was the noon rush hour, and buses, cabs, and cars clogged Market Street. An immense brown-and-white draft horse trotted past, pulling a white-painted cart that held two tourists crazy enough to visit this time of year.

Cate pulled out her cell phone, called information, and waited while the call connected. “Homicide Division,” a man answered.

“Detective Nesbitt, please.”

“He’s not in. Can I take a message?”

Cate wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Can you give me his cell phone?”

“Sorry, I can’t do that.”

“This is Judge Cate Fante. He’s been working with me on the Simone case. It’s very important that I speak with him.”

“Hold on, Judge,” the detective said, his voice warming. “I think he’s still with the brass, after the press conference.”

The line went dead, and Cate drummed her fingers on the smooth wooden steering wheel, idly watching the horse blow steamy breath from nostrils big as quarters, then shake his massive head, almost throwing off a straw hat that read DAVE. Cate had ridden when she was little, mucking stalls at a local barn to pay for lessons. It wasn’t a fancy barn, not where she lived. Barbed wire marked the grazing pasture, and the horses drank from an abandoned bathtub. She had loved riding. Her mother watching, clapping.

“Judge, here’s his cell number,” the detective came back on, interrupting her thoughts. He rattled off a number, and Cate thanked him before she hung up and pressed it in. After a few rings, Nesbitt’s mechanical message started, and Cate left him a message with her cell number.

Now where was I? Cate’s head was spinning. The burglary. Russo. Gina and Warren. It was triage, and she didn’t know which wound to treat first. Suddenly, the phone rang and she picked it up, checking the number on the lighted display.

Graham. Cate flipped open the phone and put on a happy face, or at least voice. “Hey, how’re you?”

“Fine, sorry I didn’t get back to you. I just got in, actually. I was in Minneapolis visiting a client and my plane got rerouted. I spent the night in Denver.”

“Sounds cold.” Cate cruised forward when the light changed, approaching the glitzy new Constitution Center, shining metallic in the bright sunlight. Tourists in blaze-orange jackets thronged on the sidewalk, collecting like a mob of hunters. Businesspeople hurried to and from lunch.

Graham was saying, “I see from the newspapers that all hell’s broken loose with you. Murders? Suicides? What’s going on?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Cate considered telling him about the break-in, then decided against it. “Thanks again for the flowers.”

“Glad you liked them. Have dinner with me tonight, so we can stop with the phone tag.”

“I can’t.”

“Not another date, I hope?”

“A younger man, like three years old. I babysit tonight.” Cate drove forward, finally passing the courthouse, noting that there were only a few reporters.

“Funny way to earn a few bucks. Aren’t the taxpayers paying you enough?”

“It’s my godchild.”

“Oh. Can you do it another night? I’m not free Friday. Got a late meeting.”

“It’s a long-standing gig. How about Saturday?” Cate asked, her heart curiously leaping into her throat. She had taken strangers to bed with less trepidation. “I think I’m asking you on a date.”

“Prime time? You’ve never given me a Saturday night before.”

“You’ve arrived, pal.” Cate laughed, and so did Graham.

“What did I do right? Was it the bling? Tell me, so I’ll do it again.”

“Calm yourself.” Cate approached the security kiosk outside the parking garage and waved at the guard in the booth.

“Saturday at eight, then,” Graham said, a new warmth in his voice. “I have a party to go to that night, given by one of my best clients. Would you mind going as my date?”

“I’d love it.”

“I’ll show you off. How about I pick you up, at your house?”

“Okay.” Cate felt a twinge. She’d feel funny, going home tonight. She gave him the address, hoping Nesbitt would call back soon. “Got that?”

“See you then. And wear that bracelet I gave you.”

“I will.” Cate drove down the ramp to the parking garage underneath the courthouse, then aimed her remote at the sensor and waited while the brown corrugated door lifted.

“You’re not wearing it, I know.”

“I am, too.” Cate smiled to herself. The gold bracelet was peeking out from under the thick sleeve of her coat, but he didn’t have to know that.

“See you Saturday,” she said, and hung up. She pulled into the garage, checking the car’s clock. 1:15. She was late. The parking lot was quiet and still, and she found her space and parked. She grabbed her phone and purse, and juggled both to lock the car and call Matt on the cell. She couldn’t remember his direct dial offhand, so she pressed in the main office number, hustling toward the locked door that led to the secured half of the courthouse.

“Beecker amp; Hartigan,” said a woman’s dignified voice, when the call picked up, and Cate felt herself stiffen. It was Mrs. Pershing, the prim switchboard diva who’d been with Beecker since the Jurassic. Cate didn’t even want to think about Mrs. Pershing knowing her business.

“Mrs. Pershing? It’s Cate Fante.”

“Judge! My goodness, how have you been? I keep hearing so much about that case before you, with all those movie stars. And that poor man, who killed himself. And so young.”

“Yes, it’s very sad.” Cate fished for her keys in her purse, resting her hot cell phone in the crook of her neck. “I hate to cut you off, but I’m kind of in a hurry, so could you-”

“Judge, we’re so proud of you, here at Beecker. Tell me, did you meet Clint Eastwood, at your trial? He’s a favorite of mine.”

“Clint Eastwood didn’t have anything to do with this case, Mrs. Pershing.” Cate finally found her key, shoved it into the lock, and twisted until she heard the telltale click. “Would you connect me to Matt Sorian’s office?” she asked, just as she burst into the small lobby for the judge’s elevator.