"Theodore Goodman was the confidential informant who led us to the Mandrakes' apartment. He was a client, Uncle Bob, a chicken hawk. He liked to f.u.c.k little kids."

TWENTY-TWO.

FOR JULIA Brennan, who sat near the end of a pew at the back of Holy Savior Roman Catholic Church at 8:30 on the following morning, it was a first. Though Catholic-school educated, she had never before heard a Latin ma.s.s, and she was struck by the beauty of the language and an eerie sense that she'd stepped out of time, as if the rite were being performed in a museum, or as a theater piece. Peter Foley's presence thirty feet above her head, in the choir loft, did nothing to dispel the illusion. He'd invited her to meet him here, a.s.suring her that by then he'd have cleared up his problems with the job, that he'd be ready to get down to business.

"I'd skip the ma.s.s," he'd explained, noting her surprise. "I don't want you to get the impression that I'm a fanatic or anything. But I sing in the choir and the team's counting on me. You know, you don't have to come. If you're not there, what I'll do is call you right after."

Another lie? Another dare? With Peter Foley, you were never sure.

The priest bent down over the chalice, then chanted, "Hoc est enim Corpus meum." He held that position for a moment, his back to the congregation, his fingers steepled in adoration, until the altar boy rang the bell. Then the priest elevated the Host, raising it high enough for all to see. "Simili modo post quam ..."

Julia recognized the first part, For this is My body, but the rest of it eluded her. There was a time in her life when she was familiar with the Ordinary of the ma.s.s, when she'd followed along in her Sunday missal. But that was twenty years ago, more than enough time to forget.

Julia did not take Communion, one of the few in the church to refrain. She sat back, instead, thoroughly bemused. Foley the choir boy. Foley the cop. Foley trading batches of chicken p.o.r.n with Theodore Goodman and all the others. Lily Han's warning had badly understated the reality. Foley had a dozen agendas, each pointed, as far as Julia could see, toward the same end. He wanted to maintain his equilibrium, not to mention his sanity, while he ... Well, that part of it, Foley's ultimate goal, was still a mystery, one for which Julia was suddenly, and surprisingly, grateful.

The choir began to sing, a chant of some kind, the voices without harmony, rising and falling, neither ancient nor modern. Though she'd never heard him sing, Julia tried to pick out Foley's voice, imagining him for some reason a tenor. But the voices were so thoroughly blended, matching each other note for note, that she could barely distinguish among them. Finally, she gave up, allowing the music to sweep through her, a perfect complement to the little church, the Latin ma.s.s, to Foley himself.

After the ma.s.s ended, Julia waited for Foley at the rear of the church, next to a small table bearing tracts, some theological, some offering advice on how to live a good Catholic life. She pulled one from the rack, glanced at it, put it back. Foley was coming down a narrow flight of stairs, smiling broadly, happily, as if he'd hoped for nothing more in life than her appearance.

Outside, he introduced her to the priest, Father Lucienne, then to a dozen parishioners. As she shook hands and exchanged glances, Julia read a single message in the quick smiles of Foley's friends. They were hoping she was the one, that Foley had finally overcome the tragedy that set him apart and found himself a good woman.

"You ready?"

Julia took Foley's arm. "I am," she said, leading him down the street.

"Where shall we go?"

"Well, what I thought, being as you've straightened out your problems with your superiors and your residence is no longer a secret, we'd go to your apartment." She looked up at him and winked. "You still wearing that sequined thong."

Foley shook his head. "I switched over to latex this morning. You know, for the itch."

OTHING FANCY," Foley said as he flipped a switch on the wall to light a ceiling fixture. "But it's home sweet home to me."

A dump, Julia thought as she scanned Foley's studio apartment. A clean dump, but still a dump. And pathetic, too, in spite of Foley's apparent ease.

She took in the equipment arranged along the room's outer wall. Two desktop computers, a Mac and a Gateway, a pair of notebooks, peripherals galore. More bait, but this time she wasn't biting. There would be nothing incriminating on the hard drives, or on the floppies, or anywhere else. Foley's little dump was a box of Cracker Jack without a prize at the bottom. That's why he was willing, almost eager, to bring her here.

"So." Foley leaned against the counter in front of the Gateway studiously, yet impressively, nonchalant. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

"It's the perfect spot for you," Julia responded. "A perfect non-fit."

They'd parked the car well east of Foley's apartment, on Grand Street near East Broadway, then walked into what had once been the heart of a predominantly German neighborhood, Kleindeutschland, a neighborhood that had given way toward the end of the nineteenth century to the Lower East Side, home to millions of Jewish and Italian immigrants. A hundred years later, Grand Street was still Jewish on its eastern end but west of Ludlow Street the signs above the storefront businesses were virtually all in Chinese. This was not the Chinatown south of Ca.n.a.l Street, with its curio stores and restaurants catering primarily to Europeans. Here, the faces on the crowded streets were almost universally Asian, customers and vendors alike, everybody hustling, out to make a buck in the big city. The scene was vibrant, the sidewalks crowded with pedestrians, the streets choked with trucks and cars. Double-parked vans, loading and unloading, blocked traffic. Fishmongers and their customers shouted over the din of the horns. Short, stocky men, bandanas tied across their foreheads, pushed hand trucks loaded with boxed produce through the crowds.

Foley had remained silent as he led Julia into the heart of the community, giving her plenty of time to absorb the bottom line. This was a world in which he could live as an outsider, where people minded their own business as a matter of reflex, where Peter Foley's business would have been unfathomable in any event.

"I've been in touch with the task force," Julia announced as Foley spooned coffee into a lined filter basket. "There's talk of pa.s.sing the Anja Dascalescu part of the investigation to the feebs and there's a new strategy in place. The Johns are gonna have their moment in the sun."

She didn't raise the question of Foley's status within the NYPD. Lane had been quite specific on that score, telling Julia that Inspector Thurlow had received an early morning call from Chief Flannery, then emerged from his office to announce that the task force had no further interest in Peter Foley, that Foley possessed no information relevant to their investigation. Had Lily Han spoken to Flannery? Or had the word come down from the almighty feds? Lane hadn't known, hadn't cared. With the help of a civilian computer tech, he'd created individual photos of the Johns. The photos were scheduled for release at a press conference headed by Commander Harry Clark in time for the nightly news, after which all h.e.l.l would break loose. Lane was looking forward to the explosion.

"What about the children?" Foley asked. "Why not release photos of the children?"

"The children are being written off," Julia replied. "Or maybe handed over to the feds. Either way, the NYPD wants no part of a long-term investigation. The press is clamoring for immediate results."

Foley noted Julia's bitter smile, the accusation behind it. Would he feed the results of their own little investigation to his federal connections? Without doubt, her smile said, they'd already approached him. What she couldn't know, however, was that he'd kissed off Special Agent Raymond Lear after exchanging several boxes of evidence for a very thin, very disappointing file.

"The INS worker who processed Anja's adoption," Foley said, "Christopher Inman, he's dead. In a Baltimore motel, gar rotted most likely a professional hit. The couple who officially adopted Anja, Joseph and Carla Norton, they're missing."

"Joseph and Carla .. . Like Uncle Bud and Aunt Sarah."

"Very much like Bud and Sarah. The Nortons rarely had less than five foster children living in their home. Kids arrived and left all the time."

"So the odd slave wouldn't attract all that much attention."

"Better yet. The Nortons' home is in Bayside, in a big-bucks neighborhood two blocks from Crocheron Park. Far from applauding the Nortons' efforts, the locals have been trying to get them out for a long time." Foley jammed his hands into his pockets. "I found six newspaper stories, spread out over three years, mostly in local papers. The Crocheron Civic a.s.sociation never attacks the children directly. No, what upsets Bayside's finest are the relatives coming to visit, all those unwed mothers trudging from the Norton home to the bus stop six blocks away."

Julia crossed to the counter next to the sink and poured two cups of coffee as Foley took sugar and milk from the refrigerator. "I was up again last night," she announced, "thinking." She lifted the container of milk, took what she hoped was a surrept.i.tious sniff before adding a dollop to her coffee. "I kept asking myself why an INS administrator would risk his career and his family to bring those kids into the country? How much money would you have to pay him to put his entire life in jeopardy? Because he had to figure, sooner or later, one of those kids was gonna get loose and blow the scam. Meanwhile, the paper trail leads right back to his desk."

Foley sipped at his coffee, but said nothing. His and Julia's minds had run along the same path, and he was curious to know how far she'd taken it.

"Those videos we recovered at the Mandrakes, we both felt they'd be used for blackmail, sooner or later. But what if the Nortons and Christopher Inman were being blackmailed? I remember Teddy Goodman, how scared he was, and I know if Teddy was an INS executive, he would've signed off on those adoptions. And if he was already a foster parent, like Joe Norton, he would have played the part of adoptive parent without a second thought. He'd have done anything to avoid exposure."

Julia stopped, took a breath, wondering if Foley's smile was mocking. "The Mandrakes are dead and my friend on the task force is telling me their phone records don't show a single person-to-person contact. It's possible they used a cellular to make appointments, but if so, it wasn't in their apartment or listed in their name. And the bills weren't sent to their address, either."

"So it's a dead end on the Mandrakes?"

"Unless you can tell me something I don't know." As Julia carried her coffee mug to the sink, it occurred to her that Foley's life was as carefully layered as the individuals they sought. "Inman was expendable, likewise the Nortons. The Mandrakes lived their lives prepared to move at any minute. I think we're looking at a mob crew."

"The dreaded Mafia?"

"No, from eastern Europe most likely, Russia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria. Anja came from Romania, and the other children, the children on those videos, were all Caucasian." Julia stopped abruptly as a stereo started up somewhere in the building, a salsa played at ear-splitting volume. As if on cue, a pair of c.o.c.kroaches darted from behind the sink, paused momentarily, antennae dancing, then streaked across the wall before finally disappearing behind a cabinet.

"We're in complete agreement," Foley announced, "but I think you left something out."

"Which is?"

"The possibility that whoever killed the Mandrakes took their cell phone, their client list, and whatever else he or they wanted."

"Why is it," Julia asked, "that I feel like I'm fighting a war on two fronts?" She continued before Foley could respond, then wished she'd waited long enough to find out if he intended to respond.

"Look, you're the one with the files, and you're the one calling the shots. At least for the present."

Foley's face brightened. "In that case," he told her, "it's off to the Nortons'."

"The Nortons, if you remember, will not be at home to receive us. They've gone missing."

"So much the better, Julia. Now we'll have a chance to look around without the bother of getting a search warrant. All those messy details, all that probable cause .. . you have no idea how much I've come to hate the charade."

TWENTY-THREE.

MI L E S FROM the nearest subway, the decidedly upscale community of Bayside in eastern Queens County was affluent enough to notice (and, more importantly, to report) the presence of strangers. So Julia and Foley reasoned on the long ride out, and so, by necessity, they stopped first at the 112th Precinct to announce themselves and their intention to canva.s.s the area immediately surrounding the Nor-tons' residence. The sergeant at the front desk, a thin nervous man who chewed at his lower lip throughout the conversation, eventually radioed the sector car a.s.signed to the area surrounding Crocheron Park, informing a bored patrol officer that two suits from Manhattan North Homicide would be working the neighborhood and should not be arrested or shot under any circ.u.mstances.

Satisfied, they drove from the precinct to the Nortons' residence, a sprawling, three-story brick home on a bluff overlooking Little Neck Bay. Four times the size of Julia's little house, it was impressive enough to draw a whistle.

"Whaddaya think it's worth?" she asked Foley as they stepped from the Jeep. Above their heads, a swollen milky sun cast a nearly colorless light from behind a layer of smooth high clouds. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, neither hot nor cold for January, and there was no wind.

"Between the oversize lot and the view, I'd say a million and a half." Foley closed the door, waited for Julia to come up beside him on the sidewalk. "Credit where credit is due, lieutenant. It's hard to imagine the Nortons motivated by money."

The house was surrounded by a tall stockade fence that came within six feet of the curb. Even on tiptoe Julia could see only the upper windows. They were shut tight and nothing moved behind them. After a moment, she pressed her eye to a small gap between two fence posts, found a sandbox and a swing set. The swing set was bright red and looked to be freshly painted.

"You ready?" she finally asked Foley.

"After you, lieutenant."

Foley watched Julia ring the bell at the front gate, thinking that she was only one quality short of being a great detective. She wasn't ruthless, not yet, anyway. Nevertheless, reporting in to the local precinct was her idea, and her strategy was twofold. If the Nortons didn't answer, he and Julia would canva.s.s the neighborhood, not just making their presence and their status known, but in the process learning which houses were empty. Later, when (or if; he still wasn't certain she'd go through with it) they jumped the fence, their actions would excite no undue concern. Even if they were observed, n.o.body calls the cops on the cops.

A few seconds later Julia rang a second time, then a third. Finally, she tried the handle, noting that the gate was secured with a deadbolt lock, not a simple latch. When the handle failed to turn, she looked at Foley and said, "Well, time for Plan B."

They began with the closest home, knocking on the door, ringing the bell. The only response was the frenzied barking of a very large dog. As Bayside was burglary heaven, Foley wasn't surprised. Property had to be protected and a dog was as good as any alarm.

The second home was also unoccupied. Good news indeed, as its northern face and the Norton's fence were separated only by a narrow flagstone path which was itself screened by a tall hedge in the front yard. Foley nodded to Julia, received a smile in return; both knew opportunity when they saw it.

They split up, then, Foley taking the north, and Julia the south side of the block. They kept it simple, asked a few general questions, then skipped to the chase: "Do you know where the Nortons might have gone?" n.o.body did, but one young woman, flanked by twin toddlers, volunteered a relevant piece of information to Julia.

"The welfare took those kids outta there."

"How do you know?"

"I saw the van pick 'em up. Monday morning." Her hands dropped to the shoulders of her children. "Me and the twins, we're walkin' the dog, minding our own business, when Joe Norton leads the kids out. Six of them, in a line, the oldest couldn't have been more than seven or eight. When the van drove away, Joe said, "Well, I guess you got what you wanted.""

"Did you respond?"

"Nah. I mean, I gotta admit, I wasn't one of Joe Norton's supporters, but this was really pitiful. The kids were black and Spanish, and they were carrying their possessions in garbage bags. It was like they were being led off to prison." She shrugged her shoulders, riffled her boys' hair. "You'd expect they'd be crying, but they had on these stone faces, looking straight ahead, and you had to know they'd been through it before. They were little veterans."

Julia's own face remained expressionless as she made a note from time to time, nodded her head in the right places. Anja's murder had become public knowledge on Sunday morning. A day later, the Nortons had dumped the foster kids and taken off for parts unknown. Hopefully, they'd moved fast enough. Hopefully, they weren't already dead. Hopefully, in their haste, they'd left something behind to indicate where they'd gone to ground.

Julia was already waiting as Foley smiled his last smile, offering his final thank-yous to an elderly man who claimed not to know of the Nortons' existence. Then, together, while Julia revealed the fate of the Norton foster children, they headed back down the block, covering perhaps a hundred yards before an NYPD cruiser pulled up alongside. The driver, young and cute enough to cuddle, rolled down his window.

"Lieutenant Brennan?" The boy's voice was deep and manly, his tone businesslike, but he did make one essential mistake. He addressed Peter Foley instead of Julia Brennan. Thus, when Julia replied to his query, the color rose in his round, nearly beardless cheeks until they were the deep red of a slightly overripe tomato.

"Sorry, ma'am ... I mean, lieutenant. Sorry, lieutenant."

Foley watched Julia lean into the window, watched the kid squirm away. She was hamming it up for his, Peter Foley's, benefit. Treating him as an equal though his rank, technically, was no higher than that of the patrol officer she was effortlessly intimidating.

"What can I do for you, Officer .. . O'Donnell?"

"I just thought I'd come by and offer my help, lieutenant." His voice had risen a full octave and seemed to originate in the back of his throat. "You know, if you needed anything."

"Like what?"

"Like .. . anything."

"What do you know about the Nortons?"

"They the ones with the foster kids?"

"Yeah."

To his credit, O'Donnell sat up straight while he composed a response. "Thing is," he finally said, "those kids, they never played on the streets. There are plenty of other children on the block, you see 'em after school with their skateboards and their bikes. But those kids who stayed with the Nortons, they were kept behind that fence."

Foley found himself unprepared for the young cop's observation. Ordinarily, he didn't allow himself to think about the children and what they experienced. There was no point to it. Chicken hawks were like murderers, or burglars, or thieves. They went on forever.

But this time he actually saw the children as they'd been described, marching in a straight line, eyes front, little soldiers of pain. Off to the next circle of h.e.l.l.

"Great," As Julia backed away from the car, she glanced at Foley and rolled her eyes. "Just what I wanted to hear." She tapped the roof of the car, took another step back. "We need you, officer, we'll call you."

After that, Foley had only to follow Julia Brennan down the block, around a thick hedge, and along the flagstone path running parallel to the Nortons' fence. To watch her pull off her coat, toss it into the neighboring yard, then vault the fence before he could offer a boost.

"You coming, Foley?" she called back. "Or are you having second thoughts?"

TWENTY-FOUR.

FOLEY's EYES jumped to the recessed front door, then from one window to the next. He proceeded systematically, stopping for a few seconds at each window, including those in the single-story addition at the rear. There were no lights behind the curtains, blinds, or drapes, and no sign of an alarm, which did not surprise him. With five kids living in the rarely empty house, it would present a highly uninviting target to any burglar who valued his liberty.

Satisfied, he walked over to the front gate. The lock was set high in the fence, out of reach of younger children. He twisted the latch and the bolt withdrew with a little snap. Now he and Julia would be able to claim they'd found the gate unlocked, then approached the door as they'd approach the door of any dwelling. Now they could claim it was only when the bell went unanswered that they circled the property in search of the minors they knew to live in the house. Fear of foul play uppermost in their minds.

Julia rang the bell once, just to make it look good, then followed Foley around the side of the house. Though her pulse was zipping along and her senses were on full alert, she felt comfortable, as though she'd been doing this all her life.

They walked the full length of the house, then circled around the back, to a small, double-hung window overlooking the bay. The homes on either side did not extend this far and there was no one to see when Foley stooped to gather up a rock the size of his palm. One of a series forming the border of the narrow garden, the upper half of the rock had been painted white and it looked to Julia like a gigantic vanilla cone as Foley raised it to shoulder height then crashed it into the window's upper pane.

The rock landed on the floor inside with a solid thud. It was, Julia decided, the last link in an improbable chain of events designed to establish, of all things, probable cause. Their fear for the safety of the children justified a walk around the house. That same fear, once they discovered evidence of a forced entry, justified a cursory search of the residence. The saddest part was that it would play in a courtroom, but no experienced cop, including Commander Henry Clark and Inspector Edward Thurlow, would believe it for a second.