"He's my go-to man, you know that, Alex."

"And if I've got what you need, you buying dinner?" Mike asked.

"What I need is for Kevin Bessemer to walk up to a beat cop and ask for directions to my office."

"So where'd the guys from Brooklyn tell you this went down, Mercer?"

"Came off the ramp from the Triborough Bridge, heading here. Four-car pileup right in front of them-"

"And while they're watching some poor slob from Highway One clear up the mess, Kevin gives new meaning to E-ZPass, hops out of the unmarked narc-mobile, starts singing 'Feet don't fail me now,' and hightails it off into the sunset right in his own 'hood? That's what you hear?"

"Look, Mike, if you know something different, tell me," I said. "Let me score a few points with Battaglia, so he can tell the PC."

"The real deal? These morons from Narcotics tried to sweeten the pot for Kevin. Gave him a slight detour on his way downtown."

"How'd you find out?"

"Walter DeGraw. His kid brother's in the unit." Maybe Mike wasn't joking. DeGraw was solid as a rock.

"Where to?"

"Seems whenever they want something from Bessemer, he's much more cooperative after he's had some fried chicken and a piece of uptown ass. They made a pit stop at his girlfriend's apartment. One Hundred Twelth and Second Avenue."

"You can't be serious?" I was furious.

"It's not the first time. The cops were sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on wings and watching One Life to Live while Bessemer was supposed to be relieving his sexual tension in the bedroom."

"And when they took a commercial break?"

"The window was wide-open. The bed had never been touched. The fire escape ran straight down five stories to an alleyway behind the projects. Bessemer and the girl were both in the wind."

"Tonight's 'Final Jeopardy' category is Astronomy," Alex Trebek told us after Mike had coaxed me away from my desk shortly before seven-thirty to turn on the television in the public relations office down the hall from my own.

"Don't waste my time. I've got work to do so I can go home and get a good night's sleep."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, blondie. Throwing in the towel 'cause you didn't take any science courses at Wellesley? Well, I never studied it either. But I did spend some time in the planetarium recently, don't you remember?" Mike winked at me as I nodded my head. "What do you say, Mercer, ten bucks apiece?"

The three of us had a long-standing habit of betting on the "Final Jeopardy" question whenever we happened to be together at this hour, whether in a station house, a bar, or at a crime scene.

"A dime it is," Mercer answered, and I nodded my head while the three contestants entered their multi-thousand-dollar bids on their private scorecards. "What did you tell Paige Vallis, Alex? You want me to bring her to meet with you in the afternoon?"

"We won't get to her tomorrow. I spent so much time prepping her last weekend that I think she's really ready to go. If we get anywhere near finished picking the jury by midday Friday, we can get her in then. Meanwhile, let her stay away from my office and go about her normal routine. She's more likely to keep calm."

"The answer is," Trebek said, stepping aside to reveal the printed statement in the blue box on the large screen, "'Warrior who called Halley's comet his "personal star," sparking European invasion that massacred millions.'"

Mercer folded his bill in the shape of a paper plane and sailed it at Mike. "Who was Attila the Hun?"

"This was rigged." I laughed. "You must have known it was really a history question." Mike had majored in the field at Fordham, and knew more about military history than anyone I had ever encountered. "Before I hand over ten, how about William the Conqueror?"

"Not a bad guess for either of you." He clucked his tongue the same way Trebek did at our wrong answers. "Who was Genghis Khan?" That would be the winning ticket.

"Yes, Mr. Wallace, a comet did portend the sack of Gaul, and you were very close, Ms. Cooper. William embarked on the Norman invasion when Halley's comet streaked by, calling it a sign from heaven.

"But it was Khan who thought it was his personal star. Twelve twenty-two. Swooped down from Mongolia and killed everyone he could find in southeastern Europe."

"You don't mind if I go back to work, do you?" I headed out the door as Mike started to play with the remote.

"She almost had the right answer. Only off by two hundred years and one continent. I can't believe that guy I told you about called her a dumb blonde," I heard him say to Mercer before I was ten feet away.

"What guy?" I made a U-turn and stuck my head back in the door. "Who called me dumb?"

"Just a cheap ploy to get you back here with me. There's your man." He clicked up the volume as NY1, the local news channel, flashed a mug shot of Kevin Bessemer.

"…convicted felon escaped from police custody earlier today. Bessemer, who has a long history of drug trafficking involvement, is thirty-two years old. He is believed to be extremely dangerous," the earnest young newscaster said, "and may possibly be armed."

"Yeah, with a drumstick and four stale biscuits," Mike said, shutting off the television. "C'mon, let's grab a meal. Gotta fortify myself for a midnight tour. I'm doing night watch tonight."

Mike would be working from twelve till 8A.M., available to respond to every major crime that occurred in Manhattan.

"I really don't-"

"C'mon, Alex. You've done everything you can to get your ducks in order," Mercer said. He had been working with me on the Tripping case during the two weeks since my summer vacation ended after Labor Day weekend. "You're just spinning wheels at this point. We'll feed you and drop you off at home. Call Primola. We'll be waiting for you at the elevator."

I went back to phone my favorite Italian restaurant for a reservation, straighten up my desk, and pick up the file folder to take home to organize my questions for the morning's hearing. The message dial was illuminated on my voice mail, telling me that two calls had come in while I had stepped away.

I pressed the playback button. "It's Jake, darling. I was hoping to scramble to make the last shuttle home tonight. Whatever's rocking the stock market has the staffers jumpy down here, so I think I'd better stay overnight. I'll try you later. Pleasant dreams."

Jake Tyler and I had been trying to sort out our relationship these past few months. We had spent the end of August alone together at my home on Martha's Vineyard, and the weeks of playful solitude had pushed from my mind the reality of what a wedge our two intense professional schedules put between our attempts at a serious romance.

The second one was a short message, overridden by the static of a bad cell phone connection. I couldn't tell whether the caller was male or female, and the only word I could make out clearly was "tomorrow." I pressed the caller ID function and got only the indication that the message had come from out of the area.

I walked to the elevator and met the guys, who were deep in conversation about how far ahead of Boston the Yankees would end the season. The cop who had the lobby security post bid us good night. "Full moon, Ms. Cooper. I'd get rid of Chapman first shot you get."

I gave him a thumbs-up and got into the passenger seat of Mercer's car, parked up the street on Hogan Place, telling Mike we'd meet him at the restaurant on Sixty-fourth Street.

"Mercer, before you get in, remember to dig out the pictures, okay?"

He nodded and opened the trunk, handing me four packages of snapshots of the baby who had been born in the spring to him and his wife Vickee. As we pulled away from the curb, I turned on the interior light and flipped through the photographs.