“I knew he had political ambitions,” Catherine said. “This puts him well on his way to the top.”

“Mercer said there was a big battle last night at Salma’s apartment.”

“Like a Jewish Selma?” Marisa asked. “Upper West Side? Too creepy, but I’m picturing a blue-rinse old lady who could be Ethan’s mother.”

“Think again. Like Salma Hayek. This one’s from Mexico. Twenty-two years old.”

“Only has a couple of years on Ethan’s twins, then. Ugly.”

“He’s apparently installed Salma in a brand- new condo on East End Avenue.”

“Condo, of course. No co-op, so no board approval necessary. And his own district, so she gets to vote for him too.”

“Stop the commentary, Marisa,” Nan said. “Let Alex finish.”

“The baby was sick,” I said, standing to notch up the numbers on my thermostat, as the draft from the cracked window behind me chilled my neck. “Spiked a really high fever and Salma wanted Ethan to go with her to the emergency room. He refused, a screaming match followed, and two neighbors called nine-one-one. Ethan had been drinking. Must have figured Salma’s antics were attracting a little attention, so he made it out of there before the cops arrived. Maybe you have seen the clips. Flipped the car and all that.”

“Hungover in handcuffs is not Ethan’s best look,” Catherine said. “What happened to the baby?”

“She’s doing fine, according to Mercer. Probably home with Mama by now.”

“I swear if I see Claire Leighton standing by her man for the postarraignment perp walk, I will lose all my sympathy for her,” Marisa said. “My guy did that to me I’d hang him out to dry. For this little story you swear us to secrecy?”

“She’s got more,” Nan said. “So far, all you’ve given us is what everybody else will read in tomorrow’s Post.”

“It’s Lem who told me the rest,” I said. “He was dashing down to the arraignment, but gave me a heads-up that the congressman will be painting Salma as a whackjob. Volatile and all that. Lem says she’s claimed Ethan’s tried to kill her in the past.”

“Blame the victim-blah, blah, blah. Lem’s just going to use you because you’ve always been so loyal to him, Alex,” Kelli said, pulling on strands of her naturally curly hair. “Unlike your experience learning from him, my first bureau chief was a total bitch. Watch out for Lem. I bet he had his hands all over you. Besides, who’d she claim it to?”

“All Lem had time to tell me was to check the nine-one-one records. That Salma’s called for help a couple of times before.”

“Don’t you think somebody would have put those complaints right under your nose? He’s a congressman, for heaven’s sake.”

“According to Lem, the cops got there each time but Salma refused to cooperate. Never named the perp.”

“Want me to ask headquarters to hunt down Salma’s phone number and run a check on calls from it?” Catherine asked. “I won’t mention what I’m looking for.”

I nodded and then smiled at Kelli. “And if you think I can’t read Lem Howell and his hand signals after all these years, give me a little more credit than that. Want to check and see who McKinney assigns to handle the Leighton case?”

The head of the trial division, Patrick McKinney, didn’t play well with me in the sandbox. He was the most unpleasant individual in a famously collegial office, and resented the fact that I bypassed him and reported directly to the district attorney. His on-again, off-again affair with the head of the Firearms Trafficking Unit had not only broken up his marriage but soured his already difficult personality and exacerbated his penchant for privacy.

“You going to tell Pat what you learned from Lem?”

“Kelli, you’re giving me zero points for my judgment today, aren’t you? I’ll tell Battaglia, of course, and see if he wants me looking over the shoulder of whoever gets the Leighton DWI case. Do we have a plan, ladies? Will you figure out everything there is to know about human trafficking before we meet tomorrow? Do a crash course on Ukraine and where these women were likely to end up living and working? Identify who their runners were to be?”

“Done,” Marisa said. “I have no life anyway. You’re planning an evening at the morgue?”

“Yes. None of the feds would know how to find the place anyway,” I said. There were very few homicides that fell under federal jurisdiction. Our senior prosecutors knew the morgue as well as the courtroom. “Gives me the jump on learning what happened to the young woman who was apparently murdered on the boat.”

“Well, be sure to ask Mike what his New Year’s resolution is when you see him later,” Catherine said as she gathered her papers and stood up to leave.

“Sorry?”

“He hasn’t told you yet?”

“What?”

“Roger Hayes had a party on the thirty-first,” she said, referring to the popular jurist who had run the trial division in the DA’s Office before ascending to the bench. “Lots of Supremes, prosecutors, court personnel, detectives who worked his cases when he was here. Unfortunately, none of us made the cut.”

“What about it?”

“My sources tell me that Chapman left the party with Fanny Levit.”

“You know who she is?” Marisa asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Perfect name for Chapman,” Catherine said, checking the polish on her nails. “He’d be the first guy to make a joke about dating a woman named Fanny. Really.”

“The mayor just appointed her to the civil court. She was in private practice at one of the big firms,” Marisa said. “Judge Levit now. Very fine-looking brunette with a big brain. Heard she had herself wrapped around our Mikey like a python on a mongoose by the time they left Roger’s party.”

The phone rang. The plastic button that illuminated told me it was Paul Battaglia himself, dialing me directly on what he liked to call his hotline.

“And-?” I placed my hand on the receiver but waited for Catherine to make her point.

“That’s all,” she said as they filed out. “Just wondered whether he’s told you anything about it-his new romance with a judge.”

The phone rang for the third time and I picked it up as I tried to figure out why I was distracted by a knot that tightened in my stomach while my pals fed me the rumor about Mike.

“Alexandra?”

“Yes, Paul.”

“I’ve left dozens of messages for you all day.”

For each of the four I received, he must have repeatedly hectored his longtime executive assistant, Rose Malone, to try to find me.

“I apologize, Boss.” Battaglia hated to be the last to know anything-on the record or off-that related to any case pending in the office. “I can come in now to tell you what’s been going on.”

“No, actually, you can’t.”

I recoiled at the sound of his sharp voice barking at me on the phone.

“Meet me in front of the building in two minutes, Alexandra. No powdering your nose, no spiffing up. I’ll be waiting for you in twenty-two hundred.”

The courthouse had been built as a WPA project in the 1930s, with a private elevator shared by the district attorney and the judges. The 2200 New York State license plate number had been assigned to the DA for half a century, made anew every two years by prisoners we had sent up the river for every crime in the book. Battaglia kept his SUV in the only parking spot at the entrance to our office on Hogan Place.

“Don’t you want-?”

“Yes, I want everything. But the mayor is demanding to see you, too, Alexandra. You can brief me on the way to City Hall.”