"Hey, fellas. How's it going?" I said, staring into their eyes, one by one.

I'd done all I could to look my best. From the head swiveling of just about every male court officer, defendant, and counselor I'd passed in the marble halls, I figured that I'd cleaned up pretty well.

I popped a button on my jacket, giving the guys a peek at my Glock in the pancake holster pressed tightly against my stomach.

If this had been a cartoon, eyeballs would have been popping out and big red hearts would have been banging in and out of the lawyers' chests. A hot chick and a gun? Hard to beat. Men are nothing if not predictable.

"You have the right to remain silent, guys," I said, "but this is ridiculous. Don't you think?"

There were "gotta go's" and "see ya, Jeff's," and, one by one, the lawyers moved along until it was just me and my friend Fisher in the cramped cubicle. I nearly knocked him out of his rolling chair as I slid my butt up on the side of his desk.

The key to winning any battle is to put your opponent off balance. Hit the weak spot, and don't let up until it's all over but the shouting. The one thing I remembered about Fisher, a balding, hangdog-looking thirty-something, was the way he had tried to look down my dress at a Piper's Kilt retirement party the year before.

"You said you wanted to see me, Fisher?" I said.

I watched his face flush the brightest red this side of a stoplight.

"Yes, uh, well, Detective," the ADA stammered. "I mean… uh, it's probably nothing. I'm sure it is. Where did I put that file? It'll just take a second."

As I watched him flail around over his desk, I had the feeling I'd already won this round. Interrogations were power struggles. Up until a moment before, with his cryptic message left on my machine, Jeffrey Fisher thought that he was in charge. But not anymore.

ADAs have a built-in inferiority complex when it comes to Homicide cops. The fact that Fisher was probably attracted to me kind of sealed the deal.

He would tread lightly. Whatever inconsistency he brought up, I would deny, and he would accept it. What had I been worrying about? I owned this meeting. Who was Fisher? Some nine-to-five schlep lawyer who was afraid to set foot on the dangerous streets of the Bronx? I would walk out of here blameless and free. I could feel it.

But then, out of nowhere, like some horrible apparition, Fisher's boss, Jeff Buslik, appeared. Buslik didn't look tongue-tied. In fact, he seemed extremely calm and collected. Malevolently calm. He didn't even seem impressed with my outfit. He kissed me chastely on the cheek like I was his sister.

"Lauren, how's it going?" he said. "Actually, I called the meeting. Why don't we head into my office?"

Oh, no, I thought.

Oh fucking no!

I FOLLOWED JEFF. His bureau chief's office was a corner one, facing the stadium. You could see the Yankees right-field seats out the copper-rimmed window.

"Hey, you can spy on the bleacher creatures from here," I said.

"How do you think I clear my fugitives' docket?" Jeff joked. He looked down at his desk pensively, as if searching for the right words.

"Listen, Lauren. I like you. I really do. You're a terrific cop and…"

"I'm married, Jeff," I said with a grin.

"I know that. Okay. I guess I'll just come out and ask. Did you have anything to do with the death of Scott Thayer?"

There it was. The bomb blast I'd been hoping would never come. I felt deaf for a second. I could almost feel my shadow burn into the wall behind me.

As I fought to gain back my breath, I wondered if they could process me right here in the courthouse. Send me out with the other prisoners in the van to Rikers Island.

"Of course," I said after a long beat. I was smiling to let him know I thought he was joking. "I was the Homicide investigator in charge of his case."

"That's not what I meant," Jeff said quietly.

I looked into the prosecutor's eyes. What could I say now? What could I do?

Do something, a voice told me.

Fight. Or die.

"Yeah, well, what the hell do you mean, Jeff? What is this? Scott's case is closed. I remember because the lid almost took my head off when it slammed. Has IAB called you? Is that what this is all about?"

"Three days ago, this office was contacted by the attorney of one Mr. Ignacio Morales," Jeff said. "He was a bouncer at the club Wonderland, where you went to apprehend the Ordonez brothers."

Oh, crap.

"Yeah, I remember Mr. Morales," I said. "Did Mr. Morales happen to mention that he was about to rape me in the club's basement?"

Jeff held up his hand as if to swat away that minor detail.

"He claims that the gun they found on Victor Ordonez's body was removed from your handbag in a routine security search at the nightclub."

I made my eyes bulge to project my outrage. I think Nicole Kidman would have been envious.

"And you believed this?" I said.

"Well, actually no," Jeff said. "I trust that drug-pushing vermin about as far as I could bench-press him."

Jeff reached into his drawer and took out a piece of paper.

"But then I saw this."

It was Scott's LUDs. Had my partner sent them to him? Even in my panic, I didn't believe that. Ever-efficient, never-miss-a-thing genius Jeff must have asked for his own copy.

I'd been somewhat expecting this to come up. So I came out the only way I had left to me – swinging.

"So what?" I said. "So I knew Scott. We talked on the phone. Our relationship was nobody's business, so I never mentioned it. There a crime in protecting my privacy?"

Instead of answering, Jeff took out another sheet of paper and pushed it across his desk.

It was a photocopy of a parking ticket for a motorcycle. It was really nice of him to allow me the time to thoroughly read the highlighted date and the address.

The Yonkers address half a block from my house.

A cathedral's worth of panic bells went off inside me.

I hadn't been expecting this one.

"That Yonkers PD ticket was scratched on Scott's illegally parked vehicle a couple of hours before the coroner's time of death," Jeff said calmly. "I looked up the location on a map.

"It's half a block from your house, Lauren. Talk to me here. Make all this make some sense. Because I have grand jury justification right now. A witness that saw you plant the gun. And evidence that puts Scott down the block from your house just before the ME's time of death. I've won cases with far less, Lauren. But you're a friend. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt before any formal proceedings. This is your first and last chance to tell me what happened, and to let me help you."

IT WAS TEMPTING. I'd held back so much for so long. Had lied to my friends and colleagues.

The desire to justify myself, to relieve myself of my burden, was almost unbearable. I wanted to explain how, at first, I was just afraid, and how everything had happened so fast. How I'd only wanted to protect my husband, Paul. How I did it all for him.

Now I knew how so many of the suspects I'd put away over the years felt right before they folded, purged themselves, gave it up. Confession was the last step to forgiveness, wasn't that the con?

But then I remembered.

I didn't need forgiveness.

I had a pretty good Plan B.

I did something then that I suspected Jeff Buslik didn't see too often in his high-powered corner office. I leaned back in the hot seat across from him, folded my hands on my tight skirt-clad lap, and smiled.

Then I swung for the fences!

"I see you have a lot of paper evidence here, Jeff," I said. "But I'm wondering, do you have any video evidence?"

"What?" the chief deputy DA said. There was a look on his face that I'd never witnessed before. Complete befuddlement.