I parked the Plymouth where I could move it easily if I had to. I told Flood, “That was childish. You’re a real adolescent. Give me your coat.”

“What for?”

“Because we’re going to walk up the steps, and people besides the D.A. will be watching, right? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to wear that outfit after all. But stop being a baby, okay?”

Flood said okay, handed me the coat, and turned to go. I checked to see nobody was around, then dropped an old business card on the ground. My arms were full of Flood’s coat and briefcase, so I said “Grab that, will you, Flood? When she bent at the waist to pick it off the ground, I gave her a healthy smack with the hand she’d squeezed. It was like slapping a side of beef-the pain shot from my hand right up my arm. Flood straightened up like nothing had happened, giggled and said, “Used the wrong hand, huh?” She wiggled off ahead of me and after we got about ten feet said, “Want to give me my coat back now?” I did and I wouldn’t think Flood was dumb anymore. At least not about some things.

Toby stood up when we came through his door. He always dresses the same day or night, whether he’s on trial in Supreme Court or sitting around his office listening to political discussions: Brand X three piece-suit, solid-color buttondown shirt, striped tie, wingtip shoes. Toby has a thick mustache but it doesn’t make him look any older than he really is-late thirties, I’d guess. His image is perfect for juries: solid, respectable, middle-class, not flashy or arrogant. Toby’s not a man with major resentments about his life. He’s not crazy about the fact that some defense attorneys who couldn’t carry his briefcase make five times the money he does, but he lives with it. No politician, his rise through the office has been steady if not spectacular. He doesn’t like criminals much, but he doesn’t stay up nights planning how he’s going to stop them all by himself. But he doesn’t like baby-rapers a whole lot. Maybe because he has little ones of his own-I don’t know. I do know he’s sincere about it-I’ve worked with him before. Toby held out his hand.

“Mr. Lawrence, good to see you. And this is Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yeah, this is the little woman,” I said, carefully keeping clear of Flood’s reach.

“What’s on?”

“There a guy, Martin Howard Wilson, who rapes babies for fun and profit. Without boring you with a long story, we’d like to find him.”

“Why come to me?”

“He was indicted over here for sodomizing a kid. The kid died. So did the indictment. I figure he rolled over on somebody and maybe there was good enough reason for your people to let him go, okay? But he didn’t pay for what he did and I represent some people who think he should.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“About the people, no. About the maggot, sure. I got a decent physical description, approximate age, last known whereabouts, even an alias. Calls himself The Cobra, if you’re ready for that.”

“What else?”

“Toby, he’s got a blank docket number.”

Toby said “Oh,” and sat back to think. I’d checked Flood’s lists and there was a complete run of docket numbers in sequence for the arraignment and indictment days when Wilson made his appearances, but one number was missing. Both Toby and I knew what that meant, and if the federales didn’t have this freak holed up in their so-called Witness Protection Program the Manhattan D.A. should know where to find him, or at least what he looked like. But it was a lot to ask, and Toby and I both knew it.

“Your people who want to find this guy… he steal money from them or something?”

“Something.”

“Why should I do this, Burke?”

“Lawrence.”

“Lawrence. Why should I do this?”

“Because this guy has a special racket. He works the daycare centers, the babysitting gigs, the foster-care scam, the runaway-youth hostels, the sheltered workshops, the group homes. You know the routine-he’s a disaffected Vietnam vet with a story to tell, and the liberals just fucking eat it up. Then he swallows their kids. And he walks off the charges for some reason. He has to be rolling over on someone to do that. And now he’s loose again and he will take out some more kids as sure as we’re all sitting here having this debate. He’s a dangerous, vicious degenerate who got a free pass from the government to do his filth. You want more?”

“You wouldn’t be working for the people this man allegedly rolled over on, would you, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. I thought you knew better, Toby.”

“I know you-at least I know something of you. And I know you walk pretty close to the line all the time.”

“There’s some lines I wouldn’t cross.”

“So you say.”

“My references are in the street, right?”

“Some of your references are doing time.”

“How many for baby-raping?”

“Okay, I get your point. Now let me think a bit.” He turned to Flood. “Are you uncomfortable like that? Would you like me to take your coat?” Flood the genius favored him with a dazzling smile and handed it to him. Toby approached to take the coat from her and the combination of Flood’s perfume and her dancing chest almost knocked him back into his chair. But you don’t get to be a top criminal trial lawyer without some degree of composure, so he just took the coat and turned to hang it on a wooden rack-only his reddened ears gave him away. We all sat in silence, Toby smoking his pipe, me smoking one cigarette after another, and Flood taking deep breaths every time she thought Toby or I looked bored.

Time passed. Nobody talked. Phones rang down the hall, sometimes fifteen or twenty times. They always stopped eventually. Maybe someone picked them up, maybe somebody gave up-who could tell? We all jumped when the phone on Toby’s desk rang. He snatched the receiver, barked “Ringer!” into it, and Flood and I listened to his half of the conversation, obviously with a new D.A. in the Complaint Room:

“What’s the cop say?” Pause. “What about the complaining witness?” Pause. “Guy have a record?” Pause. “Okay, don’t get worked up. It’s no big deal. It’ll never get past the grand jury. Write it up as Assault Third and put a note in the file, No ACD at Arraignment. At least we’ll make him sweat a bit. Tell the Arraignment Part A.D.A. to ask for five hundred bail. Yeah.” Pause. “That’s all.” And he hung up.

ACD just means Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal, a six-month walkaway for the defendant-if he doesn’t get busted during that time, the whole case against him is dismissed. All Toby meant was that the guy was going to get a play at some point, but they’d jerk his chain at the first appearance. Standard stuff.

Toby turned to face me. “You’ll answer for Mrs. Lawrence here?”

“No question.”

“She from here?”

“Related to someone from here.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Max the Silent.”

“She doesn’t look Chinese.”

“Doesn’t talk much either, have you noticed?”

“Is that the relationship?”

“No. And Max isn’t Chinese.”

“Okay. I’ll have to go and see if there’s a file. I’ll read through it if there is-then I’ll decide. No discussions, okay? If it looks right to me, maybe we can talk. If not, time for you to go.”

Toby excused himself and went down the hall. Because of our relationship I didn’t use the opportunity to add to my collection of official stationary. Toby knows Max. I had to bring him in once when the police were looking for him and Max had to testify in front of the grand jury. I got to go inside with him since I’m a registered interpreter for the deaf. It says so on the official letterhead of the appropriate city agency. Max wasn’t indicted.

As soon as Toby went out the door Flood opened her mouth to say something. I motioned her to be quiet. I believe Toby’s honest, but I don’t believe any city office isn’t bugged. If it was we hadn’t said anything that would get us in trouble, but with Flood’s mouth you could never be sure. I winked at her to show confidence I didn’t feel, and we sat there waiting.