“Don’t panic yet. She’s probably out working, picking up a few extra bucks before she goes home to the burbs.”

“Manager doesn’t think so. She’s gone. And what he’s pissed about is that she took everything in the room with her. It’s not the kind of place that has much in it that isn’t nailed down tight. But she walked out with the sheets, pillows, blankets, and towels.” Stan was krexing at full pitch. “She even took the Bible.”

I laughed at his plight knowing McKinney would have his head. That would be the last witness we lodge at the Big Apple, one of the few Manhattan hotels the office could afford.

“I don’t know whether to have the cops look for her or not. The jury’ll hate her when they hear it.”

“Get out your copy of the Good Book, Stan. Give ‘em Proverbs. ’Who can find a virtuous woman?‘ Don’t try to change her stripes. Let her be what she is even if she’s still a hooker. If I remember correctly, you had a ton of medical evidence that corroborated the force in that case. Point out her vulnerability and let them see what a dirtball the defendant is.”

“How do I find her? The arresting officer won’t be down in my office ‘til nine-thirty.”

“Call Midtown South. Get some of the guys from the pussy posse before they sign out. Give them a description and check to see if they spotted her during their tour.” The guys who worked the pros detail didn’t go off duty until 8A.M. “And most of all, stop panicking. You’ll have to ask the judge for a few hours’ adjournment if she doesn’t surface this morning, but that’s not the end of the world. I don’t know how you get anything done when you’re so wired.”

“Thanks, Alex. I’ll check with you later.”

I worked on correspondence until Laura arrived, then dictated several letters to her that I wanted to get out before I returned on Monday. At nine-thirty, she reminded me that I had to go across the street to Judge Torres’s part for the sentencing in the case of the serial rapist that Gayle Marino had convicted three weeks earlier.

I slipped into a seat in the front row of the large courtroom while Gayle was addressing the bench. Although the judge was well aware of Johnny Rovaro’s criminal history, Marino was carefully restating his record to support the heavy sentence she would be requesting. She reminded Torres that Rovaro had been convicted of a similar crime eight years earlier and even ran the prison clinic for sex offenders while he was upstate. When released on parole Rovaro had returned to his home in Brooklyn; a condition established by the board was his participation in a therapy program run by a treatment center in Greenwich Village.

Three months after his release, the quiet neighborhood just blocks away from the center was the scene of a series of sexual assaults. First, the attack on a young Irish nanny who managed to secure the infant in her charge out of harm’s way before being overcome by the assailant. Then a housewife with armloads of groceries who was pushed into her town house as she struggled against the armed attacker. And finally, the ten-year-old child who was followed from school and forced into her building by the same man, who struck her in the face to subdue her during the commission of the crime.

Gayle had tried an outstanding case, supporting her fragile witnesses through their moving testimony and shattering the alibi defense of the rapist’s witnesses-family and friends-with fine preparation and thorough cross-examination. Rovaro himself had been shaken by her dogged and persistent questions as she steadily destroyed his patchwork of lies and exposed his temper to the panel of jurors. Now she sat, resting his fate in the hands of one of the toughest judges in the system.

Edwin Torres was ready to speak to Rovaro. He rose from his high-backed leather chair, stepped around behind it, and leaned his elbows against it. He looked first at the defendant’s wife and mother, who had been gesturing and cursing throughout Gayle’s statement to the court. Torres’s dark hair and strong features were outlined against the light paneling of the wooden wall that framed him and he glanced over at Gayle before he began to speak. In his eloquent fashion, the judge characterized the rapist’s conduct as he looked Rovaro squarely in the eyes. “The record speaks-or, perhaps, shouts-for itself,” referring to the acts proved in Marino’s case and summarizing them once again. “But what really carries you beyond the pale of civilization-beyond compassion, beyond humanity-is your attack on the child. You are the devil incarnate, for who but a devil could punch that child in the mouth, breaking her braces against her teeth before sodomizing her?” Torres asked. “For that act of savagery alone, there are societies where you would be impaled on a stake, to dance on tiptoes for hours in the Sahara sun.”

Mickey Diamond was furiously taking notes behind me and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t you wish it wasn’t reversible error for you to say things like that in a summation? I don’t even have to make stuff up with him-he’s always so quotable.”

I smiled as Torres went on, standing by his seat to pronounce the sentence of one hundred years for Rovaro, adding his final, personal seal on the record of the twice-paroled offender. “A collective pox on the parole board that ever sees fit to unleash this demon on our society again. I will rise from my moldy grave to visit it upon them myself.”

He winked in my direction and then told the phalanx of court officers who stood behind the cuffed prisoner to put him back in the pens. As Rovaro walked out, his expression never changed, but when he reached the door that led from the courtroom to the cell, he turned and spit at the judge’s bench. The captain grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him out of the room. I walked into the well to congratulate Gayle on the outcome as one of the court officers came back to us to make sure she was okay.

“Rovaro pees ice water,” he told us, shaking his head. “You should feel good about this one.”

She did, and I waved to Torres, walking out of the part as Gayle wheeled her shopping cart full of exhibits down the hallway with me. With any luck, Gemma Dogen’s killer would be tried before a jurist like him. That is, if the killer were caught.

“You just missed Drew Renaud’s call,” Laura greeted me several minutes later. “He said he was leaving his hotel room. Didn’t want to disturb you in the middle of the night. Said he’ll try you a little later so he can get you before you leave for London.

“ McKinney wants you, too. Wants to know what you’re going to do about the new case up near Columbia-Presbyterian and who’s going to sit on things while you’re out of town. And he’s also a bit riled up about something to do with Phil. Wouldn’t say what.”

“Got it, Laura, thanks.”

Both phone lines lighted up before I could reach my desk and I had the feeling it was going to be one of those wild days, as it always seemed to be when I had to go out of town.

Through the intercom I heard Laura announce that Mercer was on the first line while a reporter from New York One was on the backup. “Kick the reporter over to the press office-I’m not talking to any of them. I’ll take Mercer.”

“G’morning. I gather Mike called you about the attack up at Columbia? I’m going over to the hospital now to see what I can pick up. Would you ask Laura to pound out a subpoena for Dietrich’s bank? I called over there when they opened up this morning. Got someone who told me he’s way deep in the hole. Racked up a huge bunch of debts and owes people a lot of money. She wouldn’t give me specifics without a grand jury subpoena-”

“Will she take it by fax? I’ll have one ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine. It’ll give me something to do while you and Chapman are having tea with the Queen. See you later.”

I hung up but saw that the button for the second line was still lighted. Obviously, a persistent reporter whom Laura couldn’t shake loose. “Alex, the guy on line two says he’s not looking for news, he’s got a tip for you. Won’t tell me what it is and won’t tell it to Brenda’s office. Want him?”