C'MON, C'MON, C'MON! Let's go, let's go!

I checked my watch as a cash register's electronic beep exploded through my skull for perhaps the thirty-seven-billionth time.

I had thought my one-purchase stop at the 57th and Broadway Duane Reade would be quick. But that was before I discovered the aisle-long line behind the lone checkout cashier.

Ten minutes later, I was one customer away from the promised land of the counter, when another cashier arrived and called, "Next."

Taking the one step needed to the newly opened register, I was nearly mowed down by a middle-aged Asian man in a doorman's suit.

"Hey!" I said.

In response, the line cutter showed me his back, boxing me out as he pushed a bag of Combos at the cashier.

The last thing I wanted was to make a scene, but I didn't have the time to be demure. I leaned in, snatched the Combos out of the cashier's hand, and sent them sailing down one of the crammed aisles behind me. Problem solving NYC-style.

"Next means next," I explained to the wide-eyed man as my purchase was scanned and bagged.

I waited until I was in my squad car, double-parked outside on Broadway, to open the bag. I pulled on a pair of rubber crime-scene gloves and took the men's reading glasses out of their package.

The lenses were round, silver rimmed. Just like the ones Paul had dropped at the crime scene. Just like the ones Bonnie hopefully hadn't processed yet.

I wiped them down with alcohol before snapping open an evidence bag and dropping them in. I lit the receipt with a match and scattered its ashes out the window onto Broadway. Then I turned the engine over and screeched away.

Next stop, police headquarters in Manhattan.

BONNIE HAD HER HEAD in one of her desk drawers when I stepped into her fifth-floor office at One Police Plaza.

"Hey, Bonnie," I said. "That is you, isn't it?"

"Lauren, what a happy surprise," Bonnie said, shaking a bag of Starbucks coffee as she stood. "And what perfect timing. How about some French roast?"

"So," she said, placing a steaming black mug in front of me a minute later. "How are things coming along?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," I said.

"Even though this case is our priority, it's going to take some time. All we got so far is that the tarp Scott was wrapped in was a Neat Sheet, a mass-market picnic blanket. They sell them in supermarkets everywhere."

I sipped my coffee, nodding. I'd bought it at Stop amp; Shop.

"What about the glasses?" I said.

"Not too much, sorry to say," Bonnie said. "There were no visible fingerprints on the lenses themselves. I red-balled them down to the lab to see if they might pick up a partial on the rims, but I wouldn't hold my breath. We're going to have to cross our fingers and see if we can get a hit on a prescription. I just got off the phone with this guy Sakarov, head of ophthalmology at NYU. He's going to analyze them and guide us through the records."

I burned my tongue with another sip of coffee, then placed the mug back down on the corner of her desk.

"Do you think I could see them?" I said.

Bonnie gave me a funny look.

"Why?" she said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I don't know," I said. "To get some sort of feel for this guy. Maybe? You never know."

Bonnie grinned as she stood.

"Okay, Psychic Detective. The lab's just down the hall. I'll go get them for you. You sit there and prime your mysterious powers until I get back."

I FINGERED THE GLASSES in my jacket pocket as I watched her walk off. My plan was to improvise, but what would I do? Say, "Look, Bonnie, a bird!" and then do the old switcheroo?

I drank my coffee and tried to think.

About a minute later, a scruffy-looking young man appeared in Bonnie's outer office. I watched him looking around, clearly lost. Maybe it was David Blaine, come to give me some sleight-of-hand tips.

I opened the door.

"Can I help you?" I called out.

"I'm looking for Sergeant Clesnik. I'm supposed to pick up a package for Dr. Sakarov?"

No! He was here for the glasses. I was out of time.

Or was I? The kid stared at me as I debated. Finally, I took the Duane Reade glasses in the evidence bag from my pocket. I found an empty envelope on Bonnie's desk. I dropped the glasses in, sealed it with a lick, and handed it over.

The kid put the envelope in his shoulder bag and stood there, staring at me. What now? Bonnie was going to be back any second.

"Anything else?" I said.

He rubbed the scruff on his chin.

"How about your number?" Shaggy said with a sly smile. "That'd be cool."

As if. Like I hadn't had enough of younger men. Now, what could I say that would make the kid disappear instantly?

"What's your take on kids?" I said, looking into his eyes lovingly. "Because my four could really use a father figure."

"Take it easy," he said with a wave as he finally left.

Bonnie arrived back maybe three minutes later with Paul's glasses in an evidence bag.

"You're lucky you came early," she said. "A messenger is about to pick them up."

"Oh, no," I said. "Some guy just came in, and I sent him away. Let me run and catch up to him."

I grabbed the glasses out of Bonnie's hand as I jogged for the exit.

"Thanks for the joe, Bonnie. Call me with the first thing you hear," I yelled over my shoulder.

THE FIRST IMPORTANT THING I noticed as I stepped back into the Homicide bullpen was that my boss wasn't alone in his office. I had just enough time to put my coat on my chair before his door opened.

"Lauren," Keane called out. "Come in here, will you. I need to see you right now."

I silenced a groan as I walked across the boss's threshold.

Jeff Buslik looked up at me, his dark eyes clear and bright and vigilant.

"Afternoon, Detective," he said.

For the past five years, the extremely handsome African American Jeff Buslik had been the Bronx DA's office's Homicide Bureau chief. Everybody said he was an actual genius. I'd worked with him three times before he'd become head of the bureau, and three times he'd gotten jury convictions. Bronx jury convictions, slam-dunked with maximum sentences, state prison, twenty-five years to life.

I rubbed my eyes as I sat down.

"What do you have so far?" the prosecutor said. "Let me hear it all, Lauren."

"Give me a break, Jeff," I said. "You have my report right there in front of you. Speed-read it again. It'll be quicker."

Jeff smiled. No wonder juries liked him. He looked like a freaking movie star. Jeff had the gift of glib, too.

"Humor me," he said.

So I told him.

When I was done, he leaned back on his chair's back legs. He laid his hands on the lapels of his spotless gray suit as he stared up at the water-stained drop ceiling. His half-lidded eyes moved back and forth as if he were reading something. How many homicides had crossed his desk? I wondered. A thousand? Two thousand?

Already he was analyzing and sorting, building up the strengths and weaknesses of the case.

Or maybe he was just reading my mind, I thought, stilling the tap-tap routine my shoe had started against the floor. Christ, he made me nervous.

"This elderly witness, Amelia Phelps, does she seem believable?" he said after a minute.

I nodded. "Very believable, Jeff."

"Pathology report?"

"They're rushing it," my boss said. "But it'll still take at least a week."

"What's your gut on these two dealers?" Jeff said. "The Ordonez brothers?"

"They're looking damn good," Keane said. "Only, we're having trouble locating them."