“It’s not Claire, Alexandra. Claire won’t do anything to make matters worse.”

“Then if there’s no domestic violence angle to Leighton’s bad behavior, you know I won’t be involved.”

“Trust me. This will wind up in your unit.”

“Think of the magnitude of my trafficking case, Lem. I won’t come up for air for months.”

“Wasn’t I the man who taught you kids how to juggle when you got your feet wet in criminal court? Don’t know a time since the Lord created felons and miscreants that the bad guys slowed down for a minute, even though you’re sitting on center stage with the biggest, fattest, most hopeless case of your young career. This isn’t the movies. Take off your blinders, girl. The crimes just keep on happening.”

That was one of the many lessons I’d learned from Lem Howell years ago. My desk was already piled sky-high with detectives’ reports when my first high-profile rape investigation was handed to me. And that hot summer season had seen a spike in sexual assaults that threatened to choke me and my colleagues as arrests skyrocketed because of the latest forensic breakthroughs. Keep all the balls in the air but focus on the case at hand.

“So if it’s not about Claire Leighton, what is it?”

“Ethan’s girlfriend, a woman named Salma. She’s unstable, volatile…,” Howell said, searching for the third phrase to complete his trilogy.

“I get it, Lem. The girlfriend-Salma, is it? She’s a loose cannon. Or you’re going to paint her as one. Salma’s going to try to make herself the victim in this scheme.”

“It’s worse than that, Alexandra. She claims that Ethan Leighton tried to kill her.”

“Too much foie gras?” Nan Toth asked. “Those jeans look like they’re glued on.”

I rubbed my hand over my stomach. “New Year’s Eve at L’Ami Louis. You know it, in the third arrondissement? It’s been there forever on this dark little side street, and Luc adores it. I was afraid to get out of the car ’cause it looked like an absolute dive, but it’s the most sinfully delicious place in the world. I gained three pounds on this trip.”

Marisa Bourgis, Catherine Dashfer, and Kelli Ollsen came into my office right behind Nan. The five of us had been great friends since they started as young prosecutors several years after I did.

“You weren’t in court dressed like that today, were you? Didn’t you have something on in front of Judge Straub?” Marisa asked. “The poor guy has a problem with his blood pressure as it is.”

“Never got there. Besides, if Straub is looking at my derrière, as you ladies obviously are, then blood pressure isn’t his biggest problem. Have you been watching the news?”

My secretary, Laura Wilkie, had rounded up my senior staff when I called to tell her I was on my way back to the office. They arrived just minutes after Lem Howell delivered his message to me.

“All day. NY-One has a constant feed and the networks cut in on the half hour with live crews on the scene,” Nan said.

“You probably know more than I do at this point.”

Marisa looked at her notes. “Nine dead.”

“Only seven when I left.”

“That channel beneath the Atlantic Beach Bridge was dredged to make it deeper for boats. They say the rip is fierce.”

“Were these latest bodies men or women?”

“One of each,” Marisa said.

“Any mention of cause of death?”

“Everyone drowned, didn’t they? That’s what the news jocks are going with.”

“Good. That means the only thing leaking so far is the Golden Voyage,” I said. “Sit down and let’s make a plan.”

Catherine handed out legal pads from the stack on top of one of the file cabinets. “You’re suggesting they didn’t drown?”

“Pomeroy thinks one of the girls was dead before she hit the water.”

“How?”

“Shot, maybe. Stabbed. We should have answers tonight,” I said.

“Well, the reporters seem clueless so far,” Nan said. “You can catch a glimpse of Mercer and Mike every now and then, so that’s good for us.”

“Did you see Rowdy Kitts?” Kelli asked. “That brunette from CNN thinks he’s hot. She’s following him all over the beach with a mike in his face.”

“Face it,” Marisa said. “Rowdy’s a fox.”

“And you’re happily married with two kids,” I said. “He’s back on the mayor’s detail, which goes to show you what my judgment counts for. Meanwhile, Donovan Baynes is giving us the female victims in the trafficking case to handle.”

“I only know Baynes by reputation,” Nan said. “Do you like him?”

“Very much. He’s smart and easy to work with.”

Since the feds had so little experience investigating sex offenses, and because Battaglia’s Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit-which I’d been supervising for almost ten years-had pioneered most innovative practices in that field for more than three decades, Baynes had welcomed me to serve with his crew. He didn’t tolerate any of the tension that characterized so many of the NYPD-FBI turf battles.

“Then we just clear the decks,” Catherine said.

“Nobody’s on trial, right?”

“I’ve got two weeks before I get sent out. What do we need?”

“I lost the battle to get them housed decently at a shelter. In a sense, for the moment they’re all suspects in this homicide and whatever other crimes may have resulted from this last-minute mutiny.”

“That’s crazy,” Nan said.

“What do you expect?” Marisa shrugged her shoulders as she scribbled on her pad. “Feds.”

“They’ll be separated from each other, detained in a nearby facility, examined by a medical team starting tonight,” I said. “We round up some Ukrainian interpreters and a bunch of paralegals and we get to work. What they were promised, how much they paid for this deadly cruise, who their contacts were, what they expected to happen here.”

“When do you think we get them?” Kelli asked.

“Not as fast as I’d like. Every one of them will have to be physically examined. Between the shipboard conditions for the last month, the malnourishment, and this morning’s unexpected exposure, there’ll be health problems to deal with first. Then Baynes will have them spread out in detention centers-God knows where.”

“He’ll be lucky if he finds room in Westchester or Suffolk County. All those facilities are crammed with illegals and detainees. This is going to move slowly,” Nan said.

“I’ve got plenty to keep you busy in the meantime.” I flopped my papers on top of the shortest pile on my desk and sat down. “Get everybody over the holiday slump. You want to handle finding the interpreters?”

“Sure. The four of us will set up teams. We ought to get someone undercover in the Ukrainian bars and clubs, don’t you think? Check the network for connections, for word about the anticipated arrival of this new group.”

These women, all in their late thirties and early forties, were consummate professionals. They had seen the darkest side of human nature, sharpened their litigation skills against lawyers for murderers, rapists, and child molesters, and restored hope and dignity to the most traumatized victims ever to pass through a precinct door. Yet at the end of their long days they went home to their families and functioned as loving wives and mothers-their humor, compassion, and souls somehow intact, their style never compromised.

“Mercer will take the lead on this, won’t he?” Marisa asked. “Did you have much chance to talk?”

“He was one of the last men to arrive at the beach, actually.”

“Will you have the lead on the trafficking?”

I shook my head. “Donovan’s going to be calling the shots. I’ll fight to keep some NYPD in the mix, but the feds want to run this,” I said. “The reason Mercer was late is that he’s got a piece of Ethan Leighton.”

“Sounds like everyone but Claire has a piece of Ethan Leighton,” Kelli said. “What’s the dish on that?”

“This doesn’t leave the room, ladies, okay? There’s a girlfriend named Salma, and Ethan’s fathered a child with her.”