"Watch this," he said as a changing traffic light brought them to a halt at the corner of First Avenue and Tenth Street. Across the way, an elderly woman bearing a pair of well-stuffed shopping bags paused briefly, then (just as the DON'T WALK sign turned steady red) launched herself into traffic. An instant later, their movements so perfectly synchronized they might have been produced by computer animation, each of the drivers in the line of cars extending toward Second Avenue slammed the palm of his hand against the horn b.u.t.ton on the steering wheel. The old lady seemed unaffected by the resulting din; her expression didn't change as she shuffled toward Foley and Julia, nor did she hurry. It wasn't until she came alongside Julia that she looked up and said, very clearly, "f.u.c.k 'em in the a.s.s."

"G.o.d, I love this town." Foley's smile was effortless. As a detective, he'd always played the good cop, and the joke, between him and his partner, was that he was too pretty to inspire fear. "Are you hungry at all?"

"I don't really have time for a meal." Julia returned Foley's smile.

"Well, a snack then. There's a Thai restaurant on the next block that's on the verge of going under. It's always empty."

"That wouldn't be a comment on the quality of their food, would it?"

"You think?"

"I do."

Foley felt his heart race. She was flirting .. . But no, flirting was way too strong. Playing was better. She was playing with him. "Well, how 'bout a walk-and-talk?" he asked. "A la the Dapper Don, Big John Gotti himself. Because I don't think we'll find another empty restaurant."

Julia nodded agreement, then jumped directly to the matter at hand, leading Foley to wonder if he'd offended her in some way. She told him about narrowing down Blue's place of origin to a single block, about two days of canva.s.sing with no tangible results. "Is it possible," she concluded, "that the victim never left the apartment? Could she have been a prisoner?"

"A slave, more likely," Foley replied. "Probably Romanian, though she might have been purchased in Bosnia or Kosovo, or even parts of Russia."

"Purchased?"

Foley frowned, the gesture not too obviously theatrical, or so he hoped. "Children are bought and sold every day. What makes your Little Girl Blue unusual is that she's Caucasian. Not too many kids on the market in Europe. She must've been a real find." He allowed his frown to broaden into a knowing smile. "And, please, lieutenant, do yourself a favor and put Indonesia out of your mind. There's no way a nation would put its reputation on the line by running a brothel out of its mission to the United Nations. It just ain't happening."

Julia said nothing for a moment, thinking it over, taking her time. They were drifting east along Ninth Street and they parted momentarily in order to pa.s.s a young girl walking an overweight Labrador retriever. As they came back together, Julia said, "Why don't you just tell me what you think, detective? From the beginning, and minus the theatrics."

"All right." Though his tone was faintly reproachful, Foley was thrilled with Julia's a.s.sertion of rank. She'd probably been told that he was unreliable, if not actually unstable, and she was trying to get control of the situation. "Look, if you don't mind, I'm going to call you Julia. And I'd like you to call me Peter. I know it sounds paranoid, but I don't want anyone to know I'm a cop. So .. ."

"Fine."

Just the one word, and the implicit command: get on with it. Foley repressed a smile. "For most of the nineteenth century, in New York City, the age of consent was ten years old. There were brothels that specialized in children, male and female, and children who walked the streets. If these children were caught having s.e.x with fully adult males, the kids would be arrested and prosecuted for the crime of prost.i.tution. And this went on for almost a hundred years." Foley looked into Julia's eyes, found their apparent calm nearly convincing. Nearly. "Believe it or not," he continued with a smile, "there's a real, actual point here and it has to do with supply and demand. For a hundred years, the rape of little children was deemed a consensual act. I think that pretty much proves that there's always been a demand, a demand that still exists, and we all know that when there's a demand, especially a demand backed up by money, a supply won't be long in coming. In this country, today, on the low end, children are pimped by their parents, biological or foster. On the high end, on the Upper East Side within a block of Central Park, a small number of very rich men find their customers by word of mouth. It's all very discreet and very expensive."

"Why don't the kids just run away?"

"I think you know the answer to that question."

"They're afraid."

"Put yourself in their position. Your parents have sold you to strangers. You've been taken to another country and confined to a small apartment where you're forced to have very painful s.e.x with adult men. You've been severely punished, even tortured, for the slightest act of rebellion. Tell me, Julia, was she on drugs? Your little girl?"

"Demerol."

"The final link in the chain that binds. Addict the child, then withdraw the drug for a few days, let 'em know what it feels like. Another thing you might want to consider. In countries like Thailand, Haiti, and the Philippines, child prost.i.tution is pretty much out in the open. The cops look the other way because they're getting a payoff, and if the children try to run they're quickly returned to their pimps. Now, it's possible that your victim spent some time in a foreign brothel before she came here. Maybe she was sold out of a brothel, then smuggled into this country, say in the trunk of a car entering from Canada. If that was the case, she would have trusted n.o.body, certainly not two adults, one of them wearing a uniform. Nor would she have appreciated the difference between a police officer and a doorman."

Foley stopped speaking long enough to allow a scrawny man pedaling an ancient Schwinn bicycle to pa.s.s by. A tape player dangling from the bike's handlebars blared a saucy mix of Caribbean and jazz rhythms, and the man was singing as he came. "Ay, mama, quepasa? Ay, mama, quepasa?"

Julia looked after the man as he wove around the pedestrian traffic, then she and Foley walked on, maintaining an edgy silence that Julia finally broke as they approached Fourteenth Street and Avenue A. "We've got fibers," she told Foley, "purple fibers from the victim's hair that we're hoping to match if we find where she came from." When he didn't respond immediately, she added, "The lecture was very nice, and I'm sure it was accurate, but it doesn't help much."

"I was only answering your question."

"I know."

Foley was tempted to offer Julia his arm, though he knew she wouldn't take it. Later on, perhaps, but not now. His voice toughened as he broke the silence. "I've known there was a brothel on the Upper East Side for months, but I haven't been able to find it. I can't seem to convince my source to open up."

"And why is that?"

"Because up till now I've been asking nicely."

Julia took a couple of steps, then dipped into her bag in search of her cell phone. "Gimme a minute here," she said. "I'm gonna call my daughter, tell her I won't be home for dinner."

THIRTEEN.

Ted Goodman here."

"Ted, it's Pete Foley."

"Who?"

"Pete Foley."

"Oh, yes, right. It's good to hear from you, Pete."

"Yeah, you too. Say, Ted, I gotta see ya."

"Sure, just give me a time and place."

"I need to see you now."

"Now?"

"Ted, it's real bad. I gotta see you right away. Like, this minute."

"This minute? You know, you're a nice guy and all, but for the life of me, I can't see any reason why I should drop everything and come rushing over. I barely know you."

"That's good, Ted, what you're doin', and I don't blame you for tryin', but I gotta see you, like this minute."

When the line went dead, Peter Foley looked across the seat at Julia Brennan. She was sitting behind the wheel, staring at the cell phone's speaker. "You should have made your point right away," she said.

"Now, where," Foley replied as he punched the redial b.u.t.ton, "is the fun in that?"

As Julia was about to reply, Theodore Goodman's voice emerged from the speaker. "Goodman."

"It's me again."

"Foley, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, what do I have to do? Call my lawyer?"

"I'm right downstairs, Ted. I'm parked in front of the building. I'm sitting next to a cop, a detective. She's tellin' me if you don't come down, she's gonna come up."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

Foley winked at Julia. "Like I already said, I don't blame you in the least. I know this has gotta be hard to take, what with no warning and all. But we're sittin' right out front, in a gray Jeep. You don't believe me, call down to the doorman, let him take a look. Bottom line, though, you don't come voluntarily, a couple of minutes from now Detective Brennan's gonna be poundin' on your door."

Foley nodded to a smiling Julia who opened the Jeep's door, hesitated, then slammed it shut.

"You with me, Ted?" Foley asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Alright. I'm coming down."

WHEN THEODORE Goodman slid into the back seat and shut the door, Julia flicked the switch that controlled the Jeep's door locks. The resulting thud as the locks slid home was painfully audible and Goodman's eyelids flicked shut as if antic.i.p.ating a blow. When they re-opened, Peter and Julia had shifted around so that their backs were against the Jeep's front doors and they were staring at him.

Goodman looked from Foley to Julia. In the Jeep's shadowy interior, her dark blue eyes appeared black. "May I see some identification?" he asked.

Julia offered her gold shield and her department ID, allowed him a brief inspection, then returned it to her purse. "You can call me Detective Brennan." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she acknowledged a growing awareness. Goodman was terrified, the threat of exposure so awful he couldn't look beyond it to jail, trial, or prison. A short, compact man in his mid-thirties, Goodman wore a high-end cashmere overcoat which he nervously unb.u.t.toned to reveal an equally expensive suit. His hair was dark and retreating from the front; his appearance was ordinary except for a fleshy mouth and a dense, five o'clock shadow that emphasized a pale complexion, now almost ghostly with fear.

"I told her everything," Foley said. "I had to."

Goodman mouth curled into a pout. "The only reason I came down," he announced, "is to inform you that I won't speak to the police without a lawyer present."

"Ted, listen to me." Foley's eyes turned down. "I told her about the .. . you know, the material I e-mailed to your computer. I told her about the videotape I gave you. I showed her the videotape you gave me. You can't get out of it. You gotta tell."

"Detective Brennan," Goodman said, turning to Julia, "are you formally denying my right to counsel?"

"You still don't get it, do you?" Foley asked. "She's not a vice cop, Ted. She doesn't give a flying f.u.c.k if you look at pictures of little girls when you jerk off. She's from homicide. She's here about Little Girl Blue." Foley's voice dropped to a near whisper. "If you remember, the last time I saw you a couple of months ago, you told me that you went to this .. . this chicken ranch and that you had a really great time. You said, "She was flat as a board, Pete, just the way I like 'em." You also told me, right before you left, there were other girls in the apartment and they were working on the Upper East Side, close to Central Park. Well, Central Park is where they found the kid and that's why Detective Brennan's here. She wants the address."

Goodman slipped a bit, at least in Julia's eyes, when he failed to renew his request for an attorney. Foley had offered the very beginnings of a deal, of a way out, and Goodman was thinking it over.

"I had to tell her," Foley insisted. He raised his arms, tossing away the coat which covered them, to reveal the handcuffs encircling his wrists. "There was nothing I could do, Ted. She had me by the b.a.l.l.s."

"Detective Brennan," Goodman said, having apparently regrouped, "am I under arrest?"

"Ted," Julia responded, "you've been spending too much time in front of the b.o.o.b tube. You've lost your hold on reality."

"I don't know what that means, but if I'm not under arrest, I'm leaving."

Julia smiled. Goodman had finally figured it out. He should never have come downstairs. He should have stayed right where he was and destroyed the evidence. "No, Teddy, you're not. You're not leaving."

"This is kidnapping. You know that?"

"Uh-oh. Now you've committed a serious crime."

"And what's that?"

"Contempt of cop. In fact, if you were twenty or thirty million dollars poorer, I'd haul your a.s.s down under the Williamsburg Bridge and smack the s.h.i.t out of you." Julia sighed. "I can't do that, of course, because you're a respectable upstanding American. But what I can do and what I will do is drag your miserable a.s.s into the precinct and lock you in a holding cell while I use Foley's testimony to secure a search warrant. Then I'll go back to your home and seize your computer, your videotapes, and any other material which could by any stretch of the imagination be deemed obscene. If there's nothing in your home, nothing incriminating, you've got nothing to worry about. If, on the other hand, I find even one naughty picture, you'll be placed under arrest, taken into custody, and subjected to a public arraignment, at which time you'll be offered bail. Until that arraignment, no lawyer can help you. It's just gonna be short-eyes Teddy Goodman and the boys on Rikers Island, many of whom, interestingly enough, were s.e.xually molested as children."

Julia looked over at Foley, guessed that he was enjoying her performance as much as she'd enjoyed his, then returned her attention to Goodman. He would cave; there was no doubt in her mind, and no mercy in her heart. "You know what a perp walk is, Teddy? When they lead the perp out of the precinct and all the reporters are waiting? You ever see one of those on the nightly news? Well, when that happens, you're gonna pull your coat over your head and turn your face away, just like the mutt you are, but it won't make any difference. By tomorrow morning, when we release your mug shot, you'll be as famous as those two sc.u.mbags who saw the girl and didn't pick up the phone. An entire city will hate your guts."

They were parked on Sixty-eighth Street, halfway between Madison and Park Avenues, before a ten-story, pre-war apartment building. It was still early, just eight o'clock, and there were pedestrians on the sidewalks and traffic in the street. Nevertheless, to Julia, as she maintained an intensifying silence, the interior of the Jeep seemed as isolated as a tomb.

"What ..." The first word, when Goodman finally got it out, emerged from the back of his throat, thick and phlegmy.

"Keep going," Julia said.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Tell me the address."

"And that's it?"

"No, that's not it. But it isn't the point, right? The point is what you get in return for your cooperation." Julia hesitated long enough to flash a dazzling smile. "What I can do, Teddy, is keep your name off any official doc.u.ment. That's what you get in return for your complete and absolutely honest cooperation. That, and that alone. Now, give me the address."

"How do I know .. . Oh, f.u.c.k." Goodman pounded his fist into his thigh. For a moment it looked to Julia as if he was going to start crying, but then he pulled himself together. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Julia responded by turning away, then starting the Jeep.

"No, wait."

She put the Jeep into reverse and released the hand brake.

"For G.o.d's sake ..."

Goodman's whole body shook as the Jeep rolled back, then forward, leaving Julia who watched him closely in the rear view mirror to wonder if he'd given even an instant's consideration to the terror inspired in the children he'd raped. The thought of letting him off the hook, even temporarily, was so repugnant she almost hoped that he wouldn't respond, that he'd take his lawyer and his punishment.

"It's on Seventy-third Street."

"I already know that."

"The Clapham, 42 East 73rd, apartment 9A."

Julia eased the Jeep back into the parking s.p.a.ce, much to the chagrin of another driver, double-parked to her rear and waiting for the spot. She waved the driver around, then patiently endured a string of epithets before turning back to Goodman.

"You were there? Inside the apartment?"

"Do I have to .. ."

"Just answer the questions, Teddy. And whatever you do, don't lie."

"Yes, I was there."

"And someone offered to provide an underage female for s.e.xual purposes in exchange for money?"

"Yes."

"And did you have s.e.x with that underage female?"