I had gotten off the elevator and gone directly to Battaglia, confident that Pat McKinney was shut in his office with his girlfriend for their ritual of five o’clock tea behind closed doors. Once I made the DA aware that one of his traditional archrivals, the federal prosecutor, was trying to grab hold of the tunnel investigation, he was quick to accept my suggestion of assigning someone to oversee the case.

“I’d suggest you get Nan Toth to work with the team,” I said. “She’s done everything from high-profile murders to complex white-collar litigation. She can match wits with a guy like Feldman without being intimidated, and the detectives respect her.”

“And she’s loyal to you, too. You like that part of it, don’t you?”

“I like it a lot, boss.”

Battaglia leaned over his intercom, took the cigar out of his mouth, and told Rose to get Nan on the phone. He asked if she could free herself up from whatever she was working on and meet in my office in ten minutes.

Mike Chapman and I spent the next two hours going over everything that we had learned in the days since the explosion with Nan, one of the senior prosecutors, who had been on Battaglia’s staff five years longer than I. Married, with two kids, the striking brunette had been successful with some of the most sophisticated cases in the office, and I had relied on her skilled guidance as much as her friendship.

“Can you hoof it uptown with Coop and me for an hour?” Mike asked, checking his watch.

“You don’t need to take me home,” I said.

“I wasn’t making a social plan, kid. You’ve been so wrapped up in yourself since Ms. Goodwin took a slice out of her wrist that you haven’t even asked me about my day. I saw Teddy O’Malley at the funeral this morning. I couldn’t talk to him until I put Brendan Quillian back in the car with the guys from patrol. You want a chance to check out the three Hassett brothers?”

“Where?”

“They’re working the four-to-twelve shift in the tunnel tonight. Teddy’ll call them up around eight fifteen, to hog house, while they’re breaking for their meal. Figures they’ll want to hear all about the funeral. I said I’d just show up.”

“Let’s not miss this one,” Nan said, eager to get started. “My husband’s turn to help the kids with their homework anyway.”

“Can you imagine what Coop would do with a husband and kids during a trial? The only other living thing in her apartment is a cactus, and she barely remembers to water that once a year,” Mike said. He kicked the leg of my chair. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Nan’ll do the heavy lifting till you go to the jury. Let’s check out Trebek and then we’ll go uptown.”

“You mean I get to lose money in this deal, too?” Nan said. “I’m Mercer’s stand-in?”

We walked around the corner to Brenda Whitney’s office, where her assistant was still at work on the week’s press releases. Mike switched from the local news channel to Jeopardy!

He left it on mute for several minutes through the end of the double-jeopardy section and a pack of commercials.

“I guess you were too busy carousing with Joan Stafford to watch on Friday night, weren’t you? Movie trivia,” Mike said, a favorite topic for all three of us. “I raised the ante a few times but Mercer whipped me. I was sure it was Luke.”

“What was Friday night? Where were you and Joan?” Nan asked me, just as I blushed and tugged at Mike’s sleeve.

“What do you mean about Luc?” I said.

“Back down, girl. Did I hit a nerve? Cool Hand Luke. I thought for sure the Oscar went to Paul Newman. He was Luke, remember? The antihero, the loner. But Mercer pegged George Kennedy for Best Supporting Actor. Eighty bucks down the tubes.”

The longer I could keep my love life out of the mix of office gossip, the better my chances for succeeding with a new guy. Battaglia’s morning greeting suggested that it would be no easier a task than usual. I had jumped at the sound of the homophone of Monsieur Rouget’s name when Mike had said it.

“The category tonight,” Trebek said, as Mike boosted the volume, “is Foreign Affairs. Foreign Affairs. That’s it, gentlemen-and lady-so place your wagers now.”

“We start at twenty bucks,” Mike said to Nan. “This one’s probably a trick question. It’s as likely to be how many babies has Prince Albert of Monaco fathered out of wedlock as some political stumper. Where’s your money?”

“Across the street in my office, Mike. Trust me for ten minutes,” Nan said, ruffling his hair.

“He doesn’t trust his mother. We’re all in.”

“Then we’ll let you see the answer,” Trebek said. “Look at the board and there it is-‘First occasion in which the United States government attempted to overthrow a foreign regime.’ Which affair was that?”

The musical tick-tocking of the show’s theme song counted down the seconds. I was mired in thoughts of the Spanish-American War and knew that it wasn’t even worth mentioning when I saw Mike’s wide grin as he rubbed his hands together.

“I’m clueless,” said Nan. “Do you know?”

“Semper fi, you two heathens. Think of the ‘Marine Hymn.’”

“I’m sorry you came up blank, dear,” Trebek consoled the computer programmer from Kansas City who had bet the farm on the big question. He held his hand to his ear, getting advice from someone offstage, as he moved to the second contestant. “Okay, Kevin, we’ll accept that answer, too. ‘What are the Barbary Wars?’ We’ll take that, Kevin. The question we were actually looking for is-”

“What was the Tripolitan War?” Mike asked.

“-probably the least known conflict in American history, folks, ‘What was the Tripolitan War?’ Yes, indeed. President Jefferson sent forces to the shores of Tripoli because the pasha and his Barbary pirates were threatening all the merchant ships in the Mediterranean and taking our sailors captive. So that’s all for this evening-”

Mike clicked Trebek off midsentence. “Double or nothing if you can name the hero who led the battle. Twenty-five years old, they made him the youngest captain in the navy.”

“Humor him,” I said, walking out with Nan. “John Paul Jones usually works when you need a naval hero.”

“Stephen Decatur, girls. ‘Our country, right or wrong,’ and all that. Died in a duel.”

“Yeah, but can you remember what you’re going to testify about in the case this week?”

“Spontaneity, Coop. You need to lighten up. You got to rock and roll with the circumstances at hand.”

“I’m rocking as best I can. What if the arraignment judge decides to let Carol Goodwin go instead of holding her for a psych exam?”

“You worried about her coming after you?” Mike asked.

“No, I’m concerned that she’s going to do something more dramatic to hurt herself and blame that on me. I kept flashing to that snapshot of her bloody arm on the bathroom floor when I should have been concentrating on other work all day.”

“Give me five minutes to close up my office and I’ll meet you outside the building,” Nan said. “Whose car?”

“I’m the wheelman.”

I took a couple of folders, shut out the lights, and headed for the elevator with Mike. The brisk night air was refreshing after an entire day inside the courthouse. I waited at the curb until Mike brought his car around.

I leaned into the window. “Would you mind checking with Central Booking as long as we’re waiting? See if you can get a status update on Goodwin?”

“You’re really nervous, aren’t you? Wait here for Nan.” Mike left the engine running and walked to the rear of 80 Centre Street, into the open garage through which prisoners were delivered for their first court appearance following their arrest and for fingerprinting.

Nan joined me in the car, and Mike returned shortly and said, “Your fruitcake won’t see a judge until sometime tomorrow. She threw a little tantrum in the ER over at Beekman, so they had to restrain her for a while to sleep it off. They’ll keep her in the psych ward tonight for observation, and she’ll be arraigned in the morning if she behaves. Feel better?”