Mercer had me home before five o’clock. Ignacia Bliss had done a midnight tour the night before, so she would not be ready to take a shift safeguarding me until later in the evening. Mercer would stay with me-along with two uniformed cops in the lobby of the high-rise building-until Ignacia arrived.

I had settled in under the comforter on my bed to try to nap for a couple of hours before what would be a long spell in front of the television. The dramatic events of the day would be replayed ad nauseam on the news, while well-meaning citizens would contribute useless interviews whenever they saw anyone who remotely resembled the escaped prisoner.

Court TV anchors had already left messages on my home machine, asking for comments on a retrospective they were planning with comparisons between today’s shooting and the Atlanta courthouse massacre of several years earlier. I turned off my telephone before shutting off the lights.

I was awakened by voices in the living room. Mercer was talking to someone, so I got up to wash my face and try to regain some control over my hair before going inside.

“I came by to apologize,” Mike said. “I was out of line with-”

“Don’t bother. I wasn’t even listening. That’s the way I’ve learned to protect myself from your barbed tongue. No apology necessary. Anything new?”

“Correction confirmed that Quillian had more than fifty bucks on him. His commissary money. His protection stash. Whatever. More than enough for a MetroCard or taxi ride.”

“And a sweatshirt and baseball cap off the tourist stands near the seaport,” Mercer said. “Board a rush-hour train and be on Long Island in an hour.”

“Or Jersey or Westchester or Connecticut.”

“Odds are he’s staying close. He still doesn’t have enough dough to get him very far, and now we know he’s got no family out of town. Where’s he going to go?”

“That one dead eye could be a giveaway,” Mike said. “You might be right, Mercer.”

“Am I the only one in this with-with a security detail?”

“Nobody’s taking chances with any of you. Artie Tramm’s in the hospital for a few days,” Mike said. “Even he’s got cops around the clock. Lem, too, and Gertz.”

“He had his chance at all of us.”

“Yeah, but desperate men do desperate things, Coop. If he finds himself trapped, who knows what he’ll try? Besides, your theory about Amanda’s murder is that Brendan had an accomplice. So what if he’s still around?”

“You sleep?” Mercer asked.

“Look at her, man. If she did, she must have been having a nightmare to come out of it looking like that.”

“I keep replaying the courtroom scene in my head, hoping for a different ending. Thinking of some way to stop him from getting his hands on Elsie’s gun.”

“Repeat after me: ‘It’s not my fault.’ How many times have I heard you tell that to your victims?”

“I’ve planned a little something different for the evening,” Mercer said, guiding me away from Mike and into the den. “We’ll get you through this.”

“I don’t want different. I just want calm, quiet-”

“That’s what you’ll have. I mean a real home-cooked meal instead of takeout. In the privacy of your own apartment. Vickee’s coming over, okay?”

Mercer’s wife, Vickee Eaton, was a second-grade detective who worked in the office of the deputy commissioner for public information. Her father had been a decorated police officer who had been killed in the field when she was fifteen, and she had split with Mercer years ago for fear she couldn’t deal with the dangers to which he was constantly exposed.

They had remarried more than two years earlier, and their baby son, Logan, had become the center of their lives. I hadn’t seen Vickee as often as I used to because of the demands of her schedule-the delicate balance of a tough job and motherhood.

“I couldn’t ask for anything better. Is she okay about leaving Logan?”

“Her sister’s only too happy to babysit. Comfort food-that’s what you’re going to have. Today was her RDO,” Mercer said, referring to Vickee’s regular day off. “She roasted a chicken this afternoon after I called her and made mashed potatoes from scratch. Some monkey bread and veggies. She’ll bring it on over and reheat it here.”

I reached my arms around his neck and kissed him.

“I’ve already ransacked your wine cabinet for something to go with it. Something smooth, something pricey.”

“You’ve got immunity for that. Anytime.”

“I’ll set the table,” Mike said. “The good stuff, right? You don’t have to do anything except try to relax. And use your brain a bit. Figure out who Quillian’s connections might be. Who would he trust to give him cover?”

“Sandhogs?” Mercer asked.

“That underground-boys-club shit only goes so far,” Mike said, opening drawers to find my silver and china. “He hasn’t been linked to any of them for years.”

“C’mon. You know better than that. Duke’s still a hero to lots of hogs. So was their father,” Mercer said. “I’m not so sure he couldn’t find some old family friends to lean on.”

“We’ve also got all those pals he did business with,” I said. “All those guys who stood up for him during the investigation. The ones who were willing to be character witnesses at the trial despite whatever they knew about how bad his relationship with Amanda had become.”

“That’s the spirit, Coop. You do the thinking, Mercer and I will take it from there. Dig out those lists of names from your files.”

Mike followed us into the den, took off his blazer, and rolled up his sleeves. “Gimme some Trebek, Mercer. Grey Goose and trivia, and I’ll be happy.”

Mercer poured drinks for each of them while Mike set the table. I stretched out on the sofa with a glass of seltzer.

“Can’t we watch some news until the final question?” I asked.

“You know what the news is, Alex. Don’t beat yourself up any more.”

I closed my eyes and rested-the volume muted-until the last segment of the show, when Mercer clicked on the sound.

“Tonight’s category is Royal Blood. Royal Blood,” Trebek said. “We’ll be back in a minute to see what each of you has wagered. Stay with us.”

“Double or nothing,” Mike called from the dining room.

“Either way, I’m the loser,” Mercer said. “Warriors or princesses, you two have a lock on this one.”

“Blood,” I said, for no reason at all. It was the only word I heard.

“Paper napkins?”

“No. The linen ones are in the armoire. Second shelf, on the right.”

Trebek stepped aside and the final answer was revealed as he read it aloud for the viewers. “‘First British king who required his subjects to call him Majesty.’”

Two contestants put on their best puzzled game-faces while the third one began to scribble an answer.

“You know it, Coop?”

“Why, Mike? You got anything in your wallet? Take a stab at it.”

“See, Mercer? That means she knows something,” Mike said, coming into the room and perching on the arm of the sofa, behind my head. “Must be a cultured king, not a soldier statesman.”

“Same guy who invented the handkerchief and insisted spoons be used at all court events.”

“What a wuss.”

“‘Who was Richard the Second?’” I asked.

I held up my hand for Mike’s forty dollars. He grabbed my fingers and squeezed hard before letting them drop-empty.

“Now that’s a ridiculous clue,” Mike said. “I mean, I could have been a contender if they’d asked it the right way. Like, ‘Son of the Black Prince.’ No offense, Mercer. Not a homey, bro-just the guy who wore a black cuirass at the Battle of Crécy. Or they could have said, ‘British king who lacked the hereditary thirst for battle. First casualty of the Wars of the Roses.’ Then she’d have been stumped. Coop doesn’t know from history-she just relies on Willy Shakespeare.”

“‘The worst is death, and death will have his day.’”

“Yeah, well, he’s had his day many times over,” Mike said. “And usually when I’m catching cases.”