“Well, if I can rearrange my schedule to stay in New York over the next weekend, may I have the first bid on Saturday night?”

“Absolutely,” I said, knowing that as I worked myself through the heart of the prosecution case, with or without my cooperating snitch, I’d probably look like a zombie by the time Saturday rolled around.

“I’ll let you get back to work now. I’ll try to find you again tonight. Let you know if I can change my plans.”

“I look forward to that.”

When Laura returned, I ate at my desk and redrafted my closing argument. The original version included points about the testimony of Marley Dionne, so I needed an alternative summation in case his refusal to talk to anyone since his attack at Rikers extended to the witness stand.

Mike Chapman called at three fifteen. “Packed house, Coop. Duke filled the church this morning. Brendan even managed to shed a few tears.”

“Tell me he’s back behind bars. Under lock and key again?”

“I just delivered him to the Tombs.”

“Have you heard anything from Mercer?”

“Yeah. It took them five hours at the property clerk, but they found the evidence from Bex Hassett’s case. Looks like it was stored properly. No reason they can’t take a shot at analysis. He’s on his way to the lab.”

“The girl’s sweater?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. There’s a rough edge on the zipper. They’ll work up the blood for a profile.”

“Mike, I really need you and Mercer to go back at Marley Dionne. That’s got to be the first order of business. I’m planning to try to use him on Wednesday, and then follow him up with your testimony.”

“I didn’t ask for this funeral detail. The lieutenant just stuck me with it. We’ll pay a visit to Dionne tomorrow. Aren’t you even curious about why Brendan Quillian called Bex Hassett the day before his wedding?”

I swiveled in my chair and stared out the window. I didn’t want to snap at Mike, but I would take him on if he had jeopardized the case. “I’ve already had a rough day. Please tell me you didn’t ask him about that?”

Lem Howell would raise a stink if Mike had even tried to question his client.

“Temper, temper, Madam Prosecutor. There were two uniformed cops sitting right there in the front seat of the car. I didn’t ask him anything.”

“But you said-”

“Now there are no rules that say I can’t talk to the man, are there? Offer my condolences and the like.”

“So you told Brendan what?”

“I just thought he’d want to know that I found his name in an old case file. Probably a coincidence is what I thought. Another homicide. Another manual strangulation. A sixteen-year-old girl named Rebecca Hassett.”

I reached in my desk drawer for some aspirin. “If he responded to you, I really do not want to know what he said. Got it?”

“He didn’t speak at all. I was sitting on the wrong side of him, so all I was looking at was the walled-up eye of the Cyclops. But I’m telling you, Coop, his whole body twitched so bad, I think if he wasn’t cuffed to me, he would have thrown himself out of the car.”

Lem Howell was talking to Judge Gertz at the bench when Pat McKinney and I entered Part 83. Lem’s smooth voice boomed in the large, empty courtroom. “The big gun, the artillery, the cannon fire, Your Honor. It appears that Alexandra has had to call in the cavalry. Mr. McKinney, welcome to the fray.”

“Gentlemen, good to see you.”

Lem didn’t like Pat any better than I did. They had often tangled before Lem left the DA’s Office for private practice-Lem, the personification of great style, and Pat, who exhibited none. He was a fine investigator, but his lack of interpersonal skills didn’t translate well in front of jurors and adversaries.

“Everything go as planned today?” Fred Gertz asked me.

“Yes, sir. I understand the defendant has been returned to the custody of the Department of Correction.”

“Do you have your schedule for the week?”

I handed my witness list for the next day to the judge, with a copy to Lem. “These are the detectives I’m calling tomorrow. The rest of the week is a work in progress. You’ll know as soon as I do.”

Lem was pleased to see there were no surprises. I had turned over all my discovery for these cops when jury selection began.

“You here to pick up some pointers, Pat?” Lem asked, brushing some flecks of dandruff off McKinney’s shoulder. “For starters, whoever is choosing your ties is doing a badass job.”

McKinney looked down at the ugly brown paisley pattern and snorted at Lem.

“We’re starting at nine sharp, folks. Is that okay? Get this show back on the road,” Gertz said. “Artie called all the jurors today. They’ll be in early and ready to go.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“Judge, I’d like to give you a heads-up about something,” Pat said, sidling up to the bench and squaring off to Lem Howell.

Gertz was already on his feet, taking off his robe to hang it in chambers for the night.

“What’s that? Something to do with Alex’s case?”

“Well, more to do with Brendan Quillian.”

Lem glanced at me and I looked away. “What would that be?” he asked.

Gertz sat down again and McKinney talked directly to him. “I think you should be aware, Judge, that yesterday afternoon, Detective Chapman came-uh-came across an open case. An old one, Your Honor, from more than a decade ago. A homicide of a young woman.”

“What do you mean, came across it?” Gertz asked.

“I don’t think we’re prepared to tell you exactly how that happened right now. But the important thing to know is that one of the persons of interest in that matter…”

Pat McKinney stalled, making sure he had Gertz’s complete attention. My head was bowed, trying to avoid Lem’s questioning expression. I didn’t agree at all with Battaglia’s suggested tactics and I didn’t want to be part of this bench conference.

“…one of the persons of interest in the manual strangulation of this teenager was Brendan Quillian.”

Lem Howell scowled at McKinney. “What do you think you’re up to, Pat? Your Honor, first of all, are we off-the-record? Is this some kind of joke that the District Attorney’s Office is going to play with my client’s life?” he asked, swinging an arm around the well of the court. “Are you grandstanding for some better ink in this case?”

“Tell me what you know,” Gertz said, cocking his head and letting McKinney sketch an outline of the case for him, calling on me from time to time for details.

“Ask Alexandra why she’s so quiet,” Lem said. “Something tells me she doesn’t have a dog in this fight.”

Gertz checked me out, then turned back to McKinney. “What’s your point?”

“I just thought you ought to know, Judge, that Battaglia may ask the Bronx district attorney to-um-to re-autopsy the case. New forensic technology, a more careful examination.”

Lem’s outrage was growing. For the eight hundred fifty dollars an hour that Brendan Quillian was paying for his services, the defendant would get more than his money’s worth, whether he was here to see the action or not. There was no trace of Lem’s good humor as he pointed his finger at McKinney and demanded some straight talk.

“Re-autopsy? Is that some kind of euphemism for digging up a body in the middle of my client’s trial? Maybe happen to have a reporter trailing along with you, a photographer or two to make sure you hit the tabloids? Have you lost your mind, Pat? Alex, you’ve got better sense than this.”

“I’m not saying it’s going to happen, Lem,” McKinney said in a soft, whining voice. “The DA just wanted me to let Judge Gertz know this might be taken out of our hands.”

“Weasel words, Your Honor. Not the first time I’ve heard them from Mr. McKinney. This-this-this-” Lem said, struggling, as he rarely did, to express himself. “This is absurd. Quite frankly, Judge, I’ve got no idea what the law is on this issue, but even the mere suggestion of an exhumation is a ridiculous reach. I’d like the court to order the prosecutors not to go any further with this until I’ve had an opportunity to do some research.”