"And why do you think we have his DNA?"

"'Cause of that hooker that was killed up in the Bronx back around Christmas-the one that was strangled?" |

"Hunts Point Market?" Mike asked, referring to an area of the borough that was notorious for the prostitutes who worked it around the clock.

"Yeah. Killed in a motel room near the Whitestone Bridge."

"Why did the police get Ralph's DNA?" I asked.

"'Cause the bastard went on a real bender after my sister died. Hit the bottle even worse than before. Nobody in the old neighborhood wanted anything to do with him, so he started picking up whores. Somebody got his license plate in front of the motel the night the girl was killed, and that's when detectives came to the house. My brother told me that Ralph stood in a lineup and they wanted him to submit to a DNA test. You oughta know about it," Dowd said, looking at Mike.

"We work Manhattan. There's a different Homicide Squad in the Bronx. I don't have any idea what happened to the case, but I can find out."

"Well, if Ralph had anything to do with it, the angels were sitting on his shoulder again. Never got busted for that one, either."

"And you think he had something to do with Galinova last Friday?"

"If that broad took a bad turn and ran into Ralphie with his load on, I'm saying he's capable of making all the wrong moves. He's not right in the head. He hasn't been since my sister died. What'd he say about the scratches he's got, huh? What kind of answer does he have about those?"

The orchestra was playing again, and Brian Dowd was shouting at us over the music.

The prompter was seated in her box downstage, ready to call out the first word of every line to the leads in the production, who had gathered in the faux crypt on the main stage.

"How late are you working today, Brian?" Mike asked.

"I'm on till four," he said. "I'm here as late as you need me."

Mike headed around the rear of the revolving wagon toward the exit on stage right, putting out his arm to stop me as a back-drop hung on an overhead pipe dropped into place from the fly above us.

When we got into the hallway and could hear each other, Mike slammed his hand against the concrete wall. "That's the damn trouble with this kind of voluntary dragnet. Ralph Harney has the balls to get a stand-in for his questioning. Why? You gotta ask yourself why?"

"The 'why?' seems pretty obvious to me. Harney didn't want the task force to think they were dealing with a murder suspect."

"That scam is over. Go up and tell Peterson about this. He can call the Bronx squad for details on the case withthe pros. I'll get Harney out of the medical office and march him upstairs for a little tete-a-tete with my boys. See if he'll give us some saliva-maybe even some of that blood that's clotted on his leg."

"And if he won't agree to do it?"

"That's why I keep you by my side, Coop. You'll get me a court order."

"You keep forgetting about that odd technicality called probable cause. You develop some of it and I'll give you whatever you need."

"It takes so much longer to play by your rules."

"What's the hurry? Cool your heels. Try and be useful-get an admission from him. If Harney was never arrested for the Bronx homicide, or if he's been exonerated as a suspect, then his DNA profile is only in the linkage database. He's not a convicted offender, much to Dowd's dismay."

"So what?"

"That's exactly the issue Mercer and I were in front of Judge McFarland about yesterday afternoon. If Harney starts looking good to you, I'm going to have to go back to her on my knees next week. She's forbidden the serologists to make any comparisons from that linkage suspect pool until she rules on the authority for its existence."

"That'll endear you to the lieutenant," Mike called out, walking away from me toward the medical office. "Why'd you try to fix a perfectly good system when it wasn't broken?"

"It wasn't my plan," I said, turning to go back up to the board-room, and practically bumping into the nurse with whom we had left Ralph Harney. She was coming from the corridor that led out to the garage exit of the opera house.

Mike jogged back toward us. "Where's your patient?"

"I couldn't deal with him, detective. He insisted on going to see his own doctor. There was no way to fight it, so I just helped him into a taxi."

"Ralph Harney walked out of here? You got a doctor's name, you have any idea where he went?"

The nurse was dumbfounded by Mike's irritation. "I don't know anything, Mr. Chapman. He just seemed in a terrible hurry to go."

The lieutenant was angrier than I had ever seen him. "I got twenty detectives sitting on their asses up here, like they're Mrs. Vanderbilt's invited guests for opening night. We got one squirrelly guy in this whole cast of characters-with a gimp, no less-and he's out the door before anybody's the wiser for it? It's more like a night at the opera with the Marx Brothers."

He started shouting names as his men got to their feet, putting on suit jackets and remaking the knots in the ties that hung suspended from their shirt collars. "Go pull Harney's cousin off his job and bring him up to the squad. Give him a feel for what a real interrogation is like," he said to the first pair he spotted. "Alex, can I lock him up for anything?"

"I'll try to be creative. Not for lying to the cops, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah. What the hell? Everybody can bullshit us. We're just the dumb friggin' police department. You two-Roman and Bliss-over to Hoboken. Somebody want to get information on Harney's family and run with it? Relatives, friends, hangouts, watering holes, known pros locations. Move it."

"Better have somebody call around to local emergency rooms," I said. "There's always a chance that ankle really was broken and he's gone in to get it X-rayed. No reason to assume he's skipped town."

"Ever the optimist, blondie. I know you prefer to be ignorant about military history, but I thought the theater arts were right up your alley," Mike said.

"And?"

"John Wilkes Booth. Shot the president in the Ford Theater, leaped onto the stage, managed to evade capture and get out of town despite the fact that he snapped the fibula in his left leg. Where there's a will there's a way. I don't think Ralph Harney is planning to stick around and make himself useful. You want me in on this, boss?"

"Nah. We screwed this one up on our own. You had something else planned, didn't you?"

"Joe Berk. See if he's missing one of his fancy gloves."

"Keep running with your end. We'll carry this disaster as far as we can."

The drive down Ninth Avenue to the theater district was familiar now. I called Mercer to see whether there were any prints on the letter and envelope that had been delivered to me. I knew he would get the lab director to jump the analysis to the top of this morning's pile of cases.

"Halfway there," Mercer said. "What was left of the stationery inside your flaming missive had Selim Sengor's fingerprints-three of them. On the envelope, we've got a partial of his gopher, Dr. Alkit."

Those would have been easy enough to compare quickly because both men had been arrested, so their print comparisons were available to the expert. "Any other partials?"

"A few on the envelope. I got somebody tracking down the messenger so we can roll his fingers, and then we'll check Laura, too."

"Don't forget the DA's Squad has hers on file," I said, reminding Mercer that all of the office employees had to submit to be printed during the security clearance process.

"Well, you can get this off your mind. Sengor's an ocean away and we've got Alkit under arrest. Whoever handles his case can up the ante with these new charges."