The second book in the Alex Cooper series

Every crime described in this book is based on an actual event.

Once again, I am profoundly grateful to all the usual suspects for their love, friendship, and sustenance throughout the period in which this book was written.

Alexandra Cooper thrives on the support of her great friends, some of whom borrow traits like their humor, wisdom, and loyalty from a few friends of my own. Alexandra Denman, Lisa Friel, Jane Stanton Hitchcock, Maureen Spencer Forrest, Karen and (the other) Alex Cooper, Susan and Michael Goldberg, Sarah and Mitch-and Casey-Rosenthal all contribute to the cast. Joan and Bernie Carl provided the very generous introduction to Cliveden. The real Dr. Robert Spector, whom I have known and admired since we were both fifteen, is not the model for the character who borrows his name in this book.

Bob Morgenthau continues to be my professional inspiration and hero. This, the twenty-fifth year I have served in the Office of the District Attorney of New York County, has remained as challenging and rewarding as all that came before. My colleagues and partners there are the best in this business and continue to work on the side of the angels for survivors of violent crime.

Perhaps the nicest part of my new career as an author has been the time spent in and around people who love books-the librarians and booksellers who place them so carefully in people’s hands, and the readers who devour them with such eagerness.

My great fortune in having Susanne Kirk as an editor cannot be overstated.

Esther Newberg is an extraordinary agent, but she is an even better friend.

All of the Fairsteins contribute to the spirit of my work, as they always have. My newest sources of inspiration-small but mighty-are Matthew and Alexander Zavislan.

My husband, Justin Feldman, continues to be my muse and my greatest joy. And my mother, Alice Atwell Fairstein, will always be the very best.

THE ANSWERING MACHINE KICKED IN AFTER a fourth irritating echo from the insistent caller. I listened to my recorded voice announce that I was not available to come to the phone right now, as little hammers pounded furiously inside my head. The last Dewar’s of the evening had been unnecessary.

I cocked an eye to glance at the illuminated dial glowing an eerie shade of green in the still dark room. It read 5:38A.M.

“If you’re screening, Coop, pick it up. C’mon, kid.”

I was unmoved, and mercifully not on duty this morning.

“It’s early and it’s cold, but don’t leave me dangling at the end of the only working phone booth in Manhattan when I’m trying to do you a favor. Pick it up, Blondie. Don’t give me that ‘unavailable’ stuff. Last I knew you were the most available broad in town.”

“Good morning, Detective Chapman, and thank you for that vote of confidence,” I murmured into the receiver as I brought my arm back under the comforter to keep it warm while I listened to Mike. Too bad I’d cracked open a window for some fresh air before going to sleep. The room was frigid.

“I got something for you. A big one, if you’re ready to get back in the saddle again.”

I winced at Chapman’s reminder that I had not picked up any serious investigations for almost five months. My involvement last fall in the murder case of my friend, the actress Isabella Lascar, had derailed me professionally. It had prompted the District Attorney to direct the reassignment of most of my trial load, so I had taken a long vacation when the killer was caught. Mike had accused me of coasting through the winter season and avoiding the kinds of difficult matters that we had worked on together so often in the past.

“What have you got?” I asked him.

“Oh, no. This isn’t one of those ‘run it by me and if it’s sexy enough I’ll keep it’ cases, Miss Cooper. You either accept this mission on faith, or I do this the legitimate way and call whichever one of your mopes is on the homicide chart today. There’ll be some eager beaver looking to get his teeth into this-I can’t help it if he won’t happen to know the difference between DNA and NBC. At least he won’t be afraid to-”

“All right, all right.” Chapman had just said the magic word and I was sitting straight up in bed now. I wasn’t certain if I was shivering because of the bitterly cold air that was blowing in from outdoors, or because I was frightened by the prospect of plunging back into the violent landscape of rapists and murderers that had dominated my professional life for almost a decade.

“Is that a yes, Blondie? You with us on this one?”

“I promise to sound more enthusiastic after some coffee, Mike. Yes, I’m with you.” His exuberance at this moment would be offensive to anyone outside the family of police and prosecutors who worked in the same orbit as he did, since it was fueled by the unnatural death of a human being. The only comfort it offered was the fact that the particular murder victim in question would be the undistracted focus of the best homicide detective in the business: Mike Chapman.

“Great. Now, get out of bed, suit up, take a few Advil for that hangover-”

“Is that just a guess, Dr. Holmes, or do you have me under surveillance?”

“Mercer told me he was in your office yesterday. Got an overheard on your evening plans-Knicks game with your law school friends, followed by supper in the bar at ‘21.’ Elementary, Miss Cooper. The only thing he couldn’t figure was whether we’d be interrupting any steamy bedroom scene with a call at this hour. I assured him that we’d be the first to know when you gave up on abstinence.”

I ignored the shot and welcomed the news that Mercer Wallace would be part of the team. A former homicide cop, he was my best investigator at the Special Victims Squad, where he caught all the major serial rape cases and pattern crimes.

“Before you use up your quarter, are you going to fill me in on this one and give me a clue about how to sell it to my boss?”

Paul Battaglia hated it when detectives shopped around his office to pull in their favorite assistant district attorneys to work on complex criminal matters. For the twenty years that he’d been the District Attorney of New York County, he had operated with an on-call system-known as the homicide chart-so that for every twenty-four-hour period, every day of the year, a senior prosecutor was on standby and ready to assist in the investigation of murder cases in any way that the NYPD considered useful. Questioning suspects, drafting search warrants, authorizing arrests, and interviewing witnesses-all of the tasks fell to the assistant D.A. who was “on the chart” and had the first significant contact with the police.

“You’re a natural for this one, Alex. No kidding. The deceased was sexually assaulted. Mercer’s right-we really need your guidance on this one.” Chapman was referring to the fact that I am the bureau chief in charge of the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit-Battaglia’s pet project that specializes in the sensitive handling of victims of rape and abuse. Often, since many of those crimes escalated to murder, my colleagues and I were designated to handle the ensuing investigations and trials.

I was stretching across to the drawer of the night table to find this month’s homicide chart, to check whether I’d be stepping on the toes of one of the D.A.‘s fair-haired boys, and how much flak I’d be heading for. “Well, until eight o’clock this morning, Eddie Fremont is catching.”