Hugo looked up at the commotion and seemed to realize that Mercer was there to intercept him. He stood up and dropped the pair of shoes before he bolted toward the gate.

Where the hell were the Port Authority cops? There was no one in sight, and I could only hope they were waiting for us at the boarding gate.

I caught up with Mercer, who had his badge in his hand. "It's the damn gun, Alex. He won't let me in with it."

I looked at the TSA agent, paralyzed by the bureaucratic necessities of his job, and trying to figure out whom to call to help him. I turned away from Mercer and made a dash through the frame of the metal detector. It screamed its alarm-maybe my gold watch, my belt hook, or my underwire bra had set it off-and I kept on running past the newsstand and fast food concessions after Maswana.

I was glad for the ringing bells, sure they would bring someone to capture me as well as my fleeing target.

The only advantage I had over Hugo Maswana's greater speed was the slipperiness of the flooring under his socks. Twice I saw him slide and fall to one knee as I gained on him, running in my rubber-soled loafers.

Now people were screaming and guards were charging from both directions-some coming at both of us from the departure gate and others overtaking us from behind.

Two of them lunged at Maswana first and wrestled him to the ground. Another one grabbed at my shoulder and tried to twist me around. I shook him off as he pushed me down and I fell on top of the suspect's back.

Maswana writhed on the ground and shoved me away, still kicking at the guards. As I grabbed his hand to keep it from striking me, I scratched at it with my nails and a thin line of blood trickled out on the surface of his knuckles. I wiped at it with my jacket.

Mercer Wallace and the PAPD supervisor jogged into sight, confirming to the men who had brought Maswana down that he was, in fact, the suspect we were after.

"Is he under arrest, Detective?" one of them asked Mercer. "You taking him in?"

"Not exactly," Mercer said, motioning the agent to step to the side, explaining-I was sure-that we might just be detaining him here for questioning until we could establish probable cause for his arrest.

I stood up and joined their conversation. The agent was nonplussed. "I mean, we can hold him for a security breach at the airport. It may only keep him a day or two."

"That's all we need," I said to Mercer. "Between the blood on my sleeve and the skin cells under my nail, we'll know this time tomorrow if we've got a case."

"You're late," Laura said, following me into my office. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was ten thirty-five.

"I didn't get home until almost two. Just couldn't move myself this morning," I said, reaching for the message slip in her hand.

"I think your body is trying to tell your brain to take-"

"Check the personals, Laura. My brain wants to rent new space. A body with a lower metabolism, no stress, one that moves at a slower rate of speed. Sluggish would be good for a couple of months. Maybe there's someone in appeals who wants to get on this treadmill for a while. Judge Tarnower?" I stared at the message on the pink slip of paper. "Did he tell you what it's about?"

The chief administrative judge rarely dealt with anyone other than Battaglia. I was afraid I'd gotten into his crosshairs over the lockup of the phlebotomist at the Midtown Community Court a week earlier, but Paul Battaglia hadn't warned me about any effort by Tarnower at interference.

"Only that it's urgent. I told him you were on your way in."

I dialed the number and waited for his secretary to patch him through. Ellen Gunsher walked into my office and I held up a finger to suggest that she wait till I finished the conversation.

"Judge Tarnower? Alex Cooper, returning your call." I used my right hand to flip through yellow-back complaints to find the file on the phlebotomist's case.

"How've you been, Alex?"

"Fine, thanks."

"I'm calling to try to save you a bit of embarrassment. You and Battaglia."

That was about as likely as me signing up for a gynecological exam with Pierre Foster, the defendant in the case. "Always nice when someone's looking out for me, Judge. Whose toes did I step on?"

He chuckled, and we seemed to be vying to see whose voice sounded less sincere. "No damage done yet. Any publicity in the pipeline on your matter?"

"Pierre Foster won't be arraigned on the indictment until next week. I'm sure the district attorney will prepare a press release. It's likely there are other-"

"Who's Foster? That's not what I'm talking about. It's the fellow they're holding out at the airport. He's halfway home, Alex. Why can't you just let go?"

I turned my back on Ellen Gunsher. "May I ask, Your Honor, who got to you on this?"

"Got to me? That's a hell of a way to put it, young lady. Nobody got to me. We're talking about diplomatic immunity, the Vienna Convention. The ambassador and his family are immune from all criminal prosecution."

"Not if the State Department asks the Dahlakian government to waive immunity. Any publicity in the pipeline is what you want to know? If the DNA matches my case samples, as I expect it will, we're talking one of the biggest serial cases in the city in years."

"I have an assurance from the premier's office, Alex, that if the Maswana kid is the perp, he'll be taken care of by the authorities in his own country. It may even be a more appropriate kind of sentence, if you get my drift. Hell, I've never been to Dahlakia, but they may still believe in public castration in the town square."

What was this man thinking? "I'd rather have a life sentence without parole, Judge, and so would all of my witnesses. A long, miserable life upstate."

"You know how expensive it will be to mount a trial like this, and then pay for sixty years of prison time?"

"The way I figure, Judge, is that the mayor eliminated the long-time exemption for diplomatic parking plates last year, so the thousands of dollars the city gets in fines from the UN neighborhood and all the consulates around town can pay for Mr. Maswana's bologna sandwiches till he croaks."

Tarnower was silent. "Can you forward me to Battaglia?"

"Sure."

"And Alex? Foster-that guy you were talking about-he's the one at the Midtown Community Court, right? I wouldn't spend too much time on that press release. The Dumpster your cops took all their evidence from is MCC property. They should have thought to get a warrant. Your case against him might go right out the window."

The judge cut me off before I could forward his call to the district attorney. I hung up and sat down in my chair as Ellen approached me.

"Rumor has it you guys made a big score last night."

No point asking how she knew. Battaglia had undoubtedly told Pat McKinney about Maswana, who was incapable of keeping professional secrets from his main squeeze.

"Fingers crossed. As soon as the lab has a preliminary read on the DNA, we'll know," I said.

"I tried calling you at home around nine o'clock."

"There were no messages on my-"

"I hung up after three rings. Silly to bother you when you weren't available."

"About what?"

She smiled at me. "Gino Guidi. He's coming around a bit."

"How do you mean?"

"He'll be here any minute. I pushed his lawyer to give us more, just like you asked me to."

I returned Ellen's smile. "Nice work. Conditions?"

"You know there always are, Alex. Sort of a queen-for-a-day," she said, referring to a deal prosecutors often dangled before targets of criminal investigations. A onetime offer of the opportunity to come in and tell what they know, with the guarantee nothing they say can be used against them in the courtroom.