Laura had held a call on my second line. It was Bob Thaler, chief serologist at the medical examiner's office. "I'm looking for Wallace. Is he with you?"

"Yeah. He'll be back in a few minutes. What's up?"

"Tell him we got a hit on that attempt on the dog-walker in Riverside Park."

"Fantastic. What do you have on the perp?" Cold hits-matches made from crime-scene evidence to DNA profiles by a computer, even when the police have no leads on a suspect-had revolutionized the investigation of violent crimes. "Convicted sex offender?"

"Convicted of nothing. He was a suspect in the rape-homicide of a woman whose body was found in Fort Tryon Park eight months ago, but she was so badly decomposed there was nothing to submit for comparison."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Ramon Carido. Dominican, originally. Hasn't been in the country too long-and he's here illegally. He's also homeless, so far as I know. Got plenty of blood off the teeth of the dog that bit him. Seeped right into his gums."

"Way to go. So even though the poor dog may have licked his chops?"

"He could have tried to clean his teeth all night, Alex. We just rolled back his gums and I found a great little sample of the perp's blood."

"My dental hygienist would be proud of you. How'd you get Ramon's DNA?"

"Special Victims and Homicide did their usual canvass. The last person who saw the victim alive, going into the park for a run, recognized Carido from the local soup kitchen. Said he was one of the guys lurking around the fringe of the park that morning. Mercer's name is on the evidence tag submitted. Must have convinced him to offer up a saliva sample."

"So he's in the suspect database. And he's homeless."

"Have Mercer call me. We've got to figure some way to move on this before Mr. Carido feels the urge to take a walk in the park again."

Mercer was as pleased by the news of the identification as I was. "I liked him for it the first time. He's slick, Alex. Had no problem spitting on my Q-tip cause he knew there was nothing left of the victim's body. She was dumped in a remote area of the park in the middle of hurricane season for more than ten days before she was found. Picked clean by local vermin, and everything else washed away by the rain and wind. Carido might even have checked the spot regularly to admire his handiwork."

"Does it bother you that the attacks occurred in such different parts of the city?"

"Not at all. He probably had to leave the 'hood in Washington Heights 'cause word on the street was that he offed the Tryon jogger. Moved south to what Mike likes to call the People's Republic of the Upper West Side. Homeless shelters, folks friendly to panhandlers and derelicts, and the same kind of victim population walking, running, and sunbathing in a convenient park. He's my man."

"So how fast can we find him?"

"Let me call the squad. He ponied up with counsel when I brought him in for questioning last fall and I know I've got the name of a Legal Aid lawyer in my file. You finish up on Sengor's indict-ment and I'll work on finding Ramon."

By two thirty in the afternoon Laura had completed the paperwork for the filing of the charges against Selim Sengor. We had ordered in lunch from the Thai restaurant on the corner and the white cardboard containers had grown cold and developed leaks while I waited for Mercer to come back from Maxine's office, where he was making the calls, with the information we needed.

"Ron Abramson," he said when he finally returned. "I just tried the nice way, but maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"How much do we need his help?"

"All the way. We don't have a permanent address of any kind for Carido, there's no file with Immigration and Naturalization 'cause he came in under the radar, and there's no mug shot 'cause he wasn't arrested. You gonna issue an APB for a six-foot-two Hispanic with no distinctive features or scars, maybe facial hair this season or maybe not, last seen wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt? I don't even know if Ramon Carido is his real name-that's what he gave us and that's what we're stuck with. Good luck, Alex."

Ron and I had started in our respective offices the same year. He supervised a pod of attorneys who handled violent felony cases, and there was little reasoning with him when he entrenched himself in a position for one of their clients.

I dialed the Legal Aid number and pressed his extension. We started with pleasantries and the conversation deteriorated from there.

"It doesn't matter whether or not I have a way to get in touch with Mr. Carido, and it matters less whether I know where he is," Ron said. "You get nothing from us."

"Ron, we've got a confirmed hit identifying Carido in the Riverside Park case. Whether you help us or not, we're going after him. It would be nice to think that another woman would be spared the trauma of a sexual assault by bringing him in sooner rather than later. If he's got a story that makes sense, I'll listen to you. I'm working with Eric Ingels on another matter and we've made a deal for a surrender in a perfectly civilized way, which is the same thing I'm offering your client."

"You even think about going after Carido on the cold hit you've got and I'll take you to court on it, Alex."

"What are you talking about? Of course we're going to find him."

"Want to meet in front of Colleen McFarland?" Ron asked. "I can be there in fifteen minutes."

He knew McFarland was one of my favorite judges. Before her appointment to the bench, she had been one of the first women partners in the litigation department of one of the best law firms in the city, and a protegee of Justin Feldman and Martin London, two giants of the New York bar.

"I don't get where you're going with this, Ron. I've got a known perp and I want to get him off the street as fast as possible."

"Your match came from the wrong databank, Alex. My guy's never been convicted of a crime and his profile should have been removed from the suspect database months ago. Before you try using that information to lock him up on this, I'll get a court order to stop you. I'm not kidding around-I'll have you jailed for contempt."

I phoned Mike on my cell as I paced the corridor outside Judge McFarland's courtroom, walking among the drug dealers and predators who were waiting for their afternoon calendar calls in the six felony parts lining the long corridor.

"You keeping busy?" he said to me.

"Next time I tell you that the thing I like most about my job is that no two days are the same, or that it's never dull, or that it isn't like the movies because time and all other new cases don't stand still for the prosecutor even though the big murder investigation she asked for has dropped into her lap, promise me you'll smack me."

"My pleasure. Where are you?" Mike asked.

"About to start a hearing that I hadn't exactly factored into my day. And you?"

"At the Met. The guys on the task force are tearing through the employee interviews. They're breaking down into categories-workers with ironclad alibis who never left the stage or were in the company of two or more other witnesses throughout the entire show, and a second group that needs a harder once-over; they're loners and oddballs or guys who didn't sign in or out Friday night. Third are the ones who make themselves potential witnesses-saw somebody they didn't know in a hallway or stairwell, think they spotted Galinova getting on the elevator with another person."

"How big is your pool of possible suspects?"

"We can rule out almost three hundred workmen. Solid guys, all professionals at what they do. They're of no interest to us. Gives us another hundred to monkey with. The lieutenant wants me to do the callbacks. Go at the weirdos a little harder than the first crew."