I pulled a chair up to the table and sat against the wall next to John Logan, opening the tab on my lite yogurt while he unwrapped a ham and cheese hero that smelled delicious.

We all kibitzed with each other while Rod and Pat went over the agenda for the meeting, waiting for the last stragglers to settle into the room. “Heard about last night’s attack on the resident. How does that cut for you?” Logan asked.

“If you know anybody who wants to confess to both crimes and put me out of my misery, let me know.”

“Right. I’m still waiting for an ID on that mob hit at Rockefeller Center. Don’t hold your breath. You got any sample voir dires on sexual abuse cases? One of my guys has a misdemeanor about to go to trial-a playground flasher. I told him I’d get some materials from you.”

“Sure. Laura’s got an entire file on jury questions. She’ll dig it up for you on your way out.”

Rod was ready to begin. “Let’s get to work. There isn’t much time this afternoon before we have to see Cooper and Chapman off on their honeymoon in the Cotswolds.”

Several heads jerked in my direction to gauge my reaction, reminding me that the rumor mill had been churning as usual. I was used to Rod’s bait and was beyond blushing.

“Nice of you to drop by the office for our meeting, Miss Cooper. McKinney told me he wasn’t sure you worked here anymore.”

“Wishful thinking on his part, Rod.” I smiled at Pat, who pretended to be making notations on his legal pad.

“Well, if you’re smuggling in any Cohibas for Battaglia, don’t forget to bring home a few extras for your old pals.”

“You know I wouldn’t dream of doing anything illegal. Cohibas or Monte Cristos?”

The cigar smokers seemed evenly divided on their votes and Rod moved on to the discussion about staffing the lobster shift. Traditionally, rookie-level assistants manned the arraignment part that operated between midnight and 8A.M., but it had been so slow and unproductive these past few months that we were debating its usefulness. Everyone around the table voiced opinions while my concentration drifted from that issue to the things I wanted Mercer to work on while Mike and I were away.

We were about to break up at two-thirty when Rod announced that he had another suspect for us to consider in the Mid-Manhattan investigation. He held up a case opinion that he told us a prosecutor had sent him from Detroit.

“You looked into this doctor named Thangavelu?”

“I’ll bite. Who is he?”

“True story. Doctor was charged with cunnilingus while performing a vaginal exam on a patient. Tried and convicted. Michigan ’s appellate court reversed-read the decision-Peoplev.Thangavelu. Judges said the prosecutor never proved that what the doctor did wasnot an acceptable part of the woman’s medical treatment. You think the jury wasn’t able to figure that out by themselves? I’ll tell you one thing. You ever get sick in Kalamazoo, Coop, just keep on driving ‘til you reach Ohio. Don’t get up in those stirrups anywhere in Michigan.

“Better call and make sure that schmuck didn’t come to New York and set up shop at Mid-Manhattan.”

“Thanks for the tip, Rod, you’re always such a help. Somehow, we missed that case when Sarah and I were doing our research. I’ll run it down when I get back from England.”

By the time I checked back in with Laura and picked up my messages, I had less than an hour to tie up all the loose ends. Sarah came upstairs to go over an additional list of items to be subpoenaed and to assure me that she would cover any developments in either of the cases over the next few days.

I packed the crime scene photos and some of the police reports into a folder, along with a copy of the video that Bob Bannion had made in Gemma’s office. Perhaps Inspector Creavey, or even Geoffrey Dogen, would have ideas when they looked at the bloody setting with fresh eyes.

“I think that’s Ricky Nelson making a commotion in the hallway,” Sarah said, backing over toward the door. Chapman was serenading Laura and Rod’s secretary to the tune of “Traveling Man,” grinning that splendid smile of his. The small audience was appreciative.

“I told my saintly old mother that Alex Cooper was taking me to London and I swear she almost had the big one on me. Thought it was an April Fool’s joke. She pleaded with me to make you stop in Dublin on the way back. Meet the family and all that. What do you say, Blondie?” He was playing to the crowd.

“Why not?”

“The least I could do was promise her that I’d try to convert you. See if I could wean you off the Dewar’s and onto some good Irish whiskey. That’s my goal, ladies. I’ll lift my glass to you right after takeoff.

“C’mon, give me your bags. Mercer’s waiting in the car. Wants to beat the rush hour traffic on the Van Wyck.” He came in to pick up my suitcase. “What’s your bet, Sarah? How many changes of clothes for the Duchess in the next seventy-two hours? How many pairs of shoes? If I get a hernia carrying this crap for her, you know I’m going out on disability. Three-quarters, on-the-job injury.”

Chapman took Sarah by the arm and walked her out to the elevator, holding my bag in his other hand. He whispered something in her ear and I saw her expression change as her body bristled and she clasped her hand to her mouth. I thought I had heard Mike say Maureen’s name.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mind your own business, kid. Nothing’s wrong. I just forgot to tell her something about somebody she knows. Let’s go.” The doors opened and the red arrow flashed the down signal.

I looked from his face to hers but couldn’t get through. “Were you talking about Maureen?”

“Don’t you think I’d tell you if I were? We’re outta here.”

I stepped in and the doors slid shut behind us.

MERCER WAS PARKED NEXT TO THE FIRE hydrant on Hogan Place. He popped the trunk so Mike could stick my suitcase inside. I pushed two ratty ties, a half-opened gym bag that appeared to be full of dirty underwear and socks, and a Yankees World Series hat over to one side so I could climb into the rear seat of the standard-issue detective-bureau Crown Vic.

We headed down Lafayette toward the entrance ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge and the choppy sequence of potholed highways that would take us to Kennedy Airport.

“So what are the afternoon updates on last night’s cases?”

“Columbia-Pres is still on life support. Not looking good for her and nobody’s come forward with anything worthwhile on a suspect. Metropolitan looks like an aborted burglary-in-progress.”

“Anything taken?”

“Two schools of thought. Whoever did it was a few feet short of the pharmacy. Could have been planning on drugs and syringes but just never got there. Had a little bit of success in the administrative office. Petty cash drawer was emptied out and personnel files were dumped all over the place.”

“Still not clear at this point. It’s a mess. Understatement. The guy actually defecated all over the files so it’s been difficult for anybody to get, shall we say, a clean read.”

“Spare me the particulars.”

“Done.”

Late-afternoon traffic was heavy as usual. Mercer weaved in and out of the idling cars and we crept slowly along for the last few miles before the freight hangars came into view. The pace picked up as we approached the terminal areas, but I braced myself against the seatback as Mercer slammed on the brakes in front of the Chapel of the Skies. It was a serene little outpost in the center of the airport that I had passed hundreds of times but had never entered.

“Coop and me’ll wait in the car. You want to say a few novenas?”

“Man, don’t make fun of me.” Chapman was terrified of flying but hated to be ridiculed for it.

“Not for the flight. Pilot’ll take care of you up there. Just so’s maybe you get lucky in England, you know?”