"He's coming home with me?" Jimmy Dylan asked, smiling for the first time since he arrived at the station house.

"No, sir. They'll take him downtown to be arraigned, but he'll be out by the end of the day," Shea said. "They've got nothing on Kiernan."

"Can I see him now, before you take him out of here?" Mike walked away from us to get his prisoner. I knew he didn't want to see an 'I told you so' expression on my face, so I stifled my annoyance at having wasted the opportunity for a more careful interrogation.

Kiernan entered the squad room in front of Mike.

"Pick up your head, boy," Jimmy Dylan said. "You got nothing to be ashamed of. You've done nothing wrong. You own a joint that sells liquor, and all this crap goes with the territory. Cops like to throw their authority around when they should have better things to do." The young man's eyes were bright red. He had obviously broken down while talking with Frankie Shea, perhaps becoming even more embarrassed when he learned from Shea that his father had inserted himself into the middle of the investigation.

Kiernan headed straight for his father. I assumed the emotional older man would embrace his son and wait until later, when they were home, to chide him for talking to us.

"I'm really sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to involve you in this."

"Do what Frankie says, kid. We'll-"

"Tell me it's okay, what I said to them, Dad," Kiernan said, starting to blubber as he looked his father in the eye.

I gathered up my notes, trying to glance away from the painful encounter, while Frankie Shea urged his client to stop talking and get the arrest process under way.

"Say something, Dad. I couldn't help what I said about her. I didn't know-"

Jimmy Dylan reached out to grab Kiernan's arm with his left hand, and with his strong right fist he hauled back and punched his numbertwo son squarely on the jaw.

Kiernan Dylan's knees gave out and he fell backwards, smacking his head against the corner of a metal file cabinet.

Mercer was on top of Jimmy Dylan, slamming his body across a desk and pinning him in place while Mike and Frankie checked on Kiernan. I could see that a gash had been opened on the back of his head, and I called down to the patrol sergeant to send someone upstairs with paper towels and Band-Aids

Get Jimmy out of here, Mercer," Mike said. "Make sure they know not to let him back in."

Now the father was trying to apologize to Kiernan.

Mike was having none of it. "I treat your son with kid gloves, Dylan. Don't put him in cuffs, don't stick him in the holding pen behind bars, feed him, and make him comfortable. I hear one question from the judge about whether the hole in his head is a result of police brutality, you'll all be sorry we've ever met."

"Save it for later, Mr. Dylan," Frankie said. "I'm a witness, Chapman. Let it go."

"If I were you, Mr. D.," Mike said, "I'd be calling that legal hotline so you can give me someone to talk to on your behalf. 1-800-SHYSTER. That's one of your rights, too, pal. Spend as much money as you'd like for the tackiest lawyer you can find. Be sure and tell him you took a whack at your own flesh and blood."

Mercer steered Dylan out the door, while Frankie Shea made an effort at cleaning up his client's head wound and getting him to his feet.

When Mercer came back upstairs, he told me that two of the cops were standing by to drive me home.

"What about you?"

"Mike's got the collar to deal with. And I'll sleep here on one of the cots. I've got to cover that muster on Governors Island in a few hours. It's Sunday, remember?"

"I feel awful that you have to work today. There's nothing I'm up to doing except going to sleep."

"Rest up, Alex. The papers will be full of stories about the murders. This may be the only day off you'll have for a while. The pressure will really be on to solve this."

He walked me downstairs to the front desk, where one of the officers was waiting for me. I got in the backseat of the car and leaned my head against the window, telling the driver where I lived. The night with Luc had been so full of tender exchanges that it was hard to absorb the brutal events of the last few hours.

It was after six thirty in the morning, and although the sky was lightening, there was still a gray mist falling across the city. We followed Broadway downtown under the elevated tracks from 133rd Street and turned east on Ninety-sixth Street, crossing through Central Park.

At the entrance to my apartment, Vinny opened the car door for me and I thanked the cops for the ride.

"Don't you get a night off this weekend?"

"Nah. Covering for Oscar. He's got a cold. How about you, Ms. Cooper? You almost beat the newspaper delivery."

"The papers go upstairs yet?"

"Yeah. Yours is in front of your door. I got a Post, if you want to see it," Vinny said, heading for his marble-topped stand in the middle of the lobby. "Here I thought you were out having a good time the other night, and instead you're chasing a serial killer."

He handed the paper to me-a thick Sunday edition, full of extra ads and inserts. The large graphic was a map, with red arrows pointing to the locations at which each of the three bodies had been found.

I didn't know whether Commissioner Scully had come up with a compelling name for his task force, but the tabloids were starting a frenzy about the mysterious military connection of this sexual sadist: SEARCH FOR SERIAL KILLER: SON OF UNCLE SAM?

Ifell asleep the minute I got into bed. I didn't awaken until three thirty in the afternoon, when Luc called from his home in Mougins, anxious to know why he hadn't been able to reach me the night before.

Now I regretted telling him so little about the case when we were together on Friday evening. I'd never imagined the developments would be so dramatic in the short time since we said good-bye in front of the Plaza Athénée. He renewed his offer for me to come to visit him at the end of the investigation, and I accepted, feeling an easing of the tension that had gripped me all weekend.

I showered and dressed and spent the last hours of the afternoon doing ordinary chores, routine things that would ground me after the intensity of the previous day. I rinsed out some lingerie in the bathroom sink, paid a stack of bills that had mounted on my desk, toasted an English muffin to snack on, and called my parents to let them know I was fine.

At six o'clock, Mercer called. He had finished the day at Governors Island, watching the reenactment rehearsal of the Civil War muster.

"All quiet on the military buff front."

"Many people show up?"

"More than seven hundred."

"I had no idea they'd draw that size. Any way to keep track of them?"

"This time, everyone had to sign in and show ID getting on the ferries to come over. There was a bit of a stampede getting folks off between four and five, but it looks like all the sightseers signed out."

"You hear anything from Mike?"

"I'm stopping by the squad now, on my way home. Peterson's setting up a daily briefing meeting, starting tonight at seven. I can stop for you on my way uptown."

"I'd like to be there." The door might not be open to me long. I worked well with the lieutenant and his team, but once the other borough commanders and trooper supervisors stepped into bigger roles during the coming weeks, I was likely to be shut out of daily police meetings. It was commonplace for many prosecutors in other offices to be a step behind the investigators, but Battaglia counted on our senior staff to partner with the NYPD as closely as possible.

On the ride uptown, Mercer told me about his day. He described the dozens of men, young and old, who dressed in antique military garb, armed with weapons from the Civil War period, and staged mock battles all over the historic grounds of the island.