THREE MORE dead days later, they took me down. Right off the street. The Prof spotted them first.

"Rollers on the right," the little man said under his breath.

"Probably behind us too. Call Davidson," I said. I tossed my cigarette into the gutter, slipped my right hand into my coat pocket to make them think I might not go along nicely, and slid away to draw them from the Prof. I quick-stepped it along Forty-fifth Street, heading west toward the river. Feeling the heat. Unmarked cop car running parallel to me in the street. Spotted a gay-porn movie house. Heard car doors slam as I slid my money through the slot for a ticket. They wouldn't want to follow me inside. Two slabs of beef shouldered in on each side, pinning my arms, pulling my hands behind me. Cuffs snapped home. They spun me around. A cop I hadn't seen before sang their song.

"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…"

They patted me down before they shoved me into the blue-and-white that pulled to the curb.

Nobody said a word on the ride downtown.

They left me alone in a holding cell for an hour or so. I didn't ask to make a phone call. I did that once, when I was a kid. Just to be doing it- I had nobody to call. Now I knew better. On both counts.

They brought me into the interrogation room. Two detectives I never saw before shouldered in behind me. Street cops. Wash-and-wear suits, bad haircuts, sidewalk shoes. They looked alike. Same size, same weight. Same eyes.

"You want a smoke?" the first one asked.

"How much are they?"

The second one grunted. "On the house," the first guy said.

I nodded. He tossed a pack on the table, pushed a dull metal Zippo across to me. I rolled my thumb carefully across the surface of the lighter, held it up to the light, slid it back to him. The second guy laughed. Threw a book of paper matches at me. I lit a cigarette.

"You want to make a statement?"

"About what?"

"You're busted. Homicide."

I blew smoke at the ceiling.

A knock at the door. The second guy opened it. The new guy was flashier. Younger. Nice suit, silk tie, dimple under the knot. Spent money on his haircut. Mirror shine on his black loafers. Even had tassels on them. The B Team. He took the seat across from me. The street-sweepers stood in the background.

"I'm Detective Lieutenant Swanson. And you're…"

"Under arrest."

One of the street cops snorted. The lieutenant gave me a hard look. "I thought you had more sense than that. What's it gonna get you, pal? You know the score. You don't give up your prints, we can hold you forever. You stand for the prints, your rap sheet falls on you and the judge is gonna remand your ass. You're looking at a few months on Rikers Island even if you beat this."

"I already gave you my prints."

One of the rollers laughed. The lieutenant looked unhappy. "Don't play games, okay? You know how it works. We got some homicides, we got a building blown all to hell in Times Square. We got feds taking fucking bows with their big score. We want ours, okay?"

"What's yours?"

"You tell me, pal. It could be you. It don't have to be. Understand? You got something to trade?"

I ground out my cigarette.

The lieutenant looked at his watch. Two gold bracelets on his wrist. "Last chance," he said.

I lit another smoke.

"Don't you even want to know who you killed?"

I blew smoke in his face.

He pushed his chair back. "Book him," he snapped to the two street cops, walking out the door.

This time all three of us laughed.

IT WAS ONE in the morning before they brought me downtown for arraignment. The Lobster Shift: they run arraignments twenty-four hours a day in Manhattan. Seven days a week. I spotted Davidson in the front row, dressed like he was going to face a jury, wide-awake. I waited for my name to be called.

Wolfe was arguing with the judge. If she was standing up at a night arraignment, the defendant must be some major degenerate. She was standing by herself at the counsel table, ten pounds of paper spread out in front of her, a guy who looked like a bouncer in a waterfront bar just behind her. Her voice was soft, but it carried.

"Twenty-nine counts, Your Honor. Twenty-nine separate counts. Seven complaining witnesses. That's seven children. The People respectfully request that the defendant be remanded until trial."

The defendant was sitting straight up, facing the judge. Well-dressed, dignified. Looked outraged to be in such a place. His lawyer was an older man, beautiful shock of white hair falling almost to his shoulders, church deacon's voice.

"Your Honor, if I may be heard. Doctor West is a prominent member of the community. A man without a scintilla of a criminal record. A family man, whose wife and children are shocked by these obviously false allegations. The People's request for a remand is simply outrageous. I assure you we intend to fight these scandalous charges on the merits, and we are contemplating the appropriate civil remedies against the parents of these obviously misguided children. I'm sure this young lady means well…"

"Don't patronize me, you pompous clown!" Wolfe's voice lashed out.

"That will be enough," the judge said, looking at Wolfe.

"From who?" she snapped back.

"From both of you. The Court has heard enough. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars."

The white-haired lawyer smiled.

"Application to surrender his passport, Your Honor"- from Wolfe.

"Your Honor, I really don't think…"

"Granted," said the judge.

One of the fancy lawyer's assistants walked over to the clerk to make the bail arrangements as they brought me forward for my turn. The white-haired lawyer walked up to Wolfe. "My client…"

"Tell him to go play with his nitrous oxide," Wolfe snarled at him. She looked up as Davidson stepped in next to me. A lovely woman, tall and shapely, her dark hair drawn back from her face, streaks of white like wings sweeping through it. Our eyes met. She said something out of the side of her mouth to the heavyweight who was with her. Swept her papers into a big briefcase and walked away. We all watched her leave, spike heels clicking on the old marble floor.

The heavyweight stepped in next to me, barrel chest against my shoulder. "You got money on the books?" You go down broke, you stay broke. Wolfe knew what you have to do to get cigarette money inside jail. And she didn't want me doing it. The kind of law enforcement they never taught her in the DA's Office.

I nodded. He left to follow Wolfe, covering her back like he always does.

I shook hands with Davidson. "You didn't make a statement," he said, making one of his own.

The ADA who took Wolfe's place was a young guy. Tired-looking. Mustache too big for his face. The B Team detective was standing next to him, looking more like a lawyer than anyone else there.

The judge stared down from the bench. I stared back- I'd seen him before. One of those "why not the best?" political appointees who climbed the ladder using Preparation H for lip gloss. "Gentlemen…any point in discussing this?" He wasn't talking to me.

The ADA started to approach the bench.

Davidson stayed where he was. "No" is all he said.

The ADA went back to his stand. "Judge, the charge is Murder Two. The defendant has an extensive criminal history, including the use of firearms to commit violence. He has no roots in the community, and there is a significant possibility he will flee before trial."

Davidson's face was already red. "What trial? There isn't going to be a trial, Judge. This was a pretextual arrest, and the People know it. Or they should know it. This case won't survive the Grand Jury. I examined these so-called papers I was handed an hour ago," he barked, waving the yellow-backed sheaf that signaled Felony. "My client is alleged to have killed one Robert Morgan, whoever that is, several months ago. Period. I don't see a hint of what this arrest was based on: no statements, no evidence…we aren't even told how this person allegedly died…was he shot, stabbed, stomped, poisoned…what? My client was arrested on the street. If he was going to flee, he's had enough time to circle the globe, much less leave New York. Where's the connection between this Robert Morgan and my client? Where's the motive? Hell, where's the body?" he sneered, looking directly at the detective. Telling him he knew.