I SAT ALONE IN MY CAR before leaving Calvary. I could see the flower-covered casket in my rearview. When the skirl of the bagpipes started up, for a moment I again caught a heady gust of cologne and rain and gra.s.s. Felt again the holy, fevered heat of Scott's body in his bedroom. The strength of his jaw against my bare skin. I banished the forbidden thoughts like the demons they were as "Amazing Grace" sailed up above the gravestones. Mistake, I reminded myself. It had all been a terrible mistake. Quick as lightning, just as deadly. I looked out at the red-eyed police heading back to their cars. That I was fooling them burned like battery acid in my stomach, but I tried my best to believe it was the best thing for everyone under the circ.u.mstances. What result could have been better? I thought. The dehumanizing, demoralizing tabloid circus that was the truth? I stared out at the casket as Scott's son raised a hand in salute to the wobbling brim of his father's hat. Then I looked up at the stunning skyline of Manhattan, at the gravestones in the foreground like a kind of city itself. My eyes were dry as I turned the engine over. There was one good thing - undeniable - Paul and I had been given a second chance.Part TwoCOMPLICATIONS

Chapter 59.

IT WAS COMING UP ON NINE the morning after Scott's funeral when the phone rang. I lay there, hoping that Paul would pick it up. He'd been unbelievably terrific since the shooting. He'd even taken time off work and was cooking for me, fielding my calls, and listening when I needed to talk. He seemed to relish his role as my protector and healer. There were no more naked scotch binges in the garage, at least, so I guess the focus on me was having a positive effect. And I have to admit, no-nonsense, capable woman that I can be, it was a relief to have someone taking care of me for a change. The phone kept on ringing, though, and when I turned over, I saw that Paul wasn't there. I lifted the receiver and sat up. I thought it would be either my boss or Mike. Maybe IAB. But I was wrong on every count. "Lauren? Hi, it's Dr. Marcuse calling. I'm glad I caught you at home." I shuddered, waiting to hear the worst. "Don't worry, Lauren. Relax," Dr. Marcuse said. "The tests came back, and everything is okay." I sat there, relief rattling the receiver off my bandaged head. "You're perfectly fine, Lauren," the doctor continued. "In fact, you're better than that. I hope you're sitting down. You're not sick, you're . . . pregnant." Seconds pa.s.sed. A lot of them actually. Each one filled with stark silence. "Lauren?" I heard Dr. Marcuse say faintly. "Are you still there?" I found myself slowly falling back onto the bed. It seemed to take quite some time for my head to actually touch the pillow.Pregnant? I thought, feeling suddenly as if I were melting.How could that be? How could it happen now? Paul and I had only been trying to have kids for years. After an extensive round of fertility specialists and tests, we learned that a pH imbalance was producing an environment not conducive to conception. We'd tried everything short of fertility drugs, which weren't recommended because I had a family history of ovarian cancer. "What? Are you sure?" I said. "How?" "I don't actually know, Lauren," my doctor said, chuckling. "I wasn't there. You tell me." My head was spinning. The whole room seemed to be. I'd always wanted to have a baby, of course. But now? "I'm pregnant?" I said, stunned, into the phone. "You're what?" Paul said. He was just coming into the bedroom with a breakfast tray. My mouth refused to work, so I handed him the phone. I didn't know how he'd react. I'd stopped trying to antic.i.p.ate Paul's feelings. I stared into his eyes. But I didn't have to wait long. After a brief moment, a look of ecstatic surprise lit up his face, followed by an ear-to-ear grin. "A . . . what?" he said. "You're . . . Oh my G.o.d . . ." Paul dropped the phone and lifted me out of the bed. For what seemed like an eternity, he hugged me. "Oh, G.o.d," Paul said. "Thank you, G.o.d. Thank you, G.o.d. This is so great." As we embraced, I did some quick mental math. The last time I had my period. What was I thinking? Of course it was Paul's. I'd only slept with Scott the one time, and that had been only six days ago. Something cold inside me began to change then. The whole time I'd been convalescing, not an hour had gone by when I hadn't been attacked with feelings of guilt and shame and black anxiety. But standing there, being waltzed around my bedroom by my joyous, good-looking husband, I suddenly came to realize something startling. Paul and I had simply tried to have what everyone wanted. A happy marriage, a happy family. We were good people, hardworking, humble. But from day one, we'd been faced with hardship. Stasis. We were two people who, try as they would, couldn't become three. Did we divorce? Part ways because it was inconvenient to be together? No. We clung to each other, tried to make it work. For years, we struggled to make our love conquer some biological gyp. We spent years trying to keep things together while our separate careers and the everyday stresses of modern life did everything in their power to wrench us apart. I started crying when Paul cupped my stomach with his palm. A baby! I thought, grasping Paul's hand. A sign of hope finally. And forgiveness.A new life for both of us.We can get through this after all, I thought. We really can get through this. "I love you, Paul," I said. "You're going to make an amazing father.""I love you, too," Paul whispered, and he kissed away the tears on my cheeks. "Mommy."

Chapter 60.

THERE WERE TWO MEN sitting in my boss's office when I finally came back to work the following Monday. From the other side of the squad room, I took in their executive-looking haircuts, their dark suits. My paranoid brain went to work instantly. Scott had worked with the DEA, which was a section in the Department of Justice. The FBI did the legwork for the DOJ. This was all I needed now, a visit from the Feds! I didn't even make it as far as my desk before Lieutenant Keane opened his door. "Lauren, could you come in here a second?" he said. I brought my bodega coffee with me to make it look like I really thought this would take only a second. I was getting good at deception. At least I hoped I was. "Have a seat, Detective Stillwell," a man in a navy suit said from one of my boss's chairs. His partner, wearing what looked like the same style three-b.u.t.ton, only in gray, stood at his shoulder, staring at me expressionless, motionless. Their authoritative att.i.tude both irritated and scared the living h.e.l.l out of me. And since showing fear wasn't an option at this juncture, I tried p.i.s.sed-off on for size. "What's the dealio, boss?" I said to Keane. "You set me up on a blind date? Where's bachelor number three?" Two badges came out. My adrenaline shifted down half a gear when I saw that they weren't the tiny gold badges the Feebs sport. They were copies of the one in the Chanel knock-off on my desk. "IAB," Navy and Gray said in unison. So, they weren't Feds here to arrest me, I realized. My relief was short-lived when I considered that they were definitely tin collectors here about Mike's shooting. It was too late to play demure, I realized as I sat down. Never take a step back, my father advised me when I'd decided to get on The Job after law school. He'd also given me another tidbit of wisdom.f.u.c.k the IAB."Hey, nice. Synchronized rats," I said, plopping down in the guest chair. "You guys should try out for the Special Olympics." They glared at me. I glared back. Keane's pale face turned scarlet as he struggled to not spontaneously combust with laughter. "That's very funny, Detective," Navy said with a click of his pen. "What's less funny, I guess, is the shooting death of Victor Ordonez. As we speak, there is a rally being planned in his Washington Heights neighborhood. The cry for the details of his death has gotten loud enough to be heard way down at One Police Plaza. We fully intend to find and report the truth of what occurred." I stared at him for a beat after his little speech. "I'm sorry," I said, cupping the bandage on my ear and cheek. "Did you say something? I can't hear very well. Some virus named Victor Ordonez shot me a week ago." "You're coming close to insubordination, Detective Stillwell," Gray said. "We are here to do a routine interview. If you want us to swivel the focus of our investigation onto you, that can be arranged." "Swivel it off who?" I said. "My partner? Well, get ready to write this down. My partner saved my life. I was running between two parked trains, and I was shot. I climbed for safety into one of the cars. As Victor Ordonez was attempting to come into the car where I was hiding - to finish me off, no doubt - my partner arrived and took him down.""How many shots were fired?" Gray said. "Was it boom-boom-boom or just boom? "I took a sip of my coffee and set it down on my boss's desk. Some coffee spilled and I didn't give a s.h.i.t."It was a gunfight in a train yard," I said. "I was shot. I was sucking floor. I wasn't playing sound engineer for some episode of Law and Order. "Gray finally slammed his book shut. "Fine," he said. "But for the record, will you answer me just one more question? Detective, you were the primary investigator in this case. You were on your way to apprehend two very dangerous suspects who you believed to be responsible for the death of Detective Thayer. Why didn't you call for the tactical a.s.sistance of the Emergency Service Unit?" I sat there for a couple of seconds. He had me on that one. It was standard operating procedure, and I hadn't done it. I opened my mouth to say . . . G.o.d only knew what. Then my jaw dropped as my boss jumped in. "I authorized her to go ahead." I looked over at Keane. He looked back with an expression that said, keep your mouth shut. "I determined that there wasn't enough time to wait, so I gave the go-ahead," Keane went on. Then he rose from his seat. He walked across the length of the room and opened the door for Navy and Gray. "Now, my detective has to get back to work," he said. "Thanks for the save there, boss man," I said after the IAB creeps left and Keane had shut the door again. "Yeah, well, you and your partner are heroes as far as I and every self-respecting cop in this department are concerned," Keane said, taking his seat back. "And oh, yeah," he said. "f.u.c.k the IAB."

Chapter 61.

I WAS COMING OUT of Keane's office when my partner called me on my cell phone. "Have the rodents left the building?" Mike wanted to know. "The two-footed ones at least," I said. "Come meet me for an early lunch at the Piper's," Mike said. "My treat." It took me twenty minutes or so to drive to the Piper's Kilt on 231st Street in Kingsbridge. The Bronx cop and district attorney hangout was much more bar than grill, but the burgers were outrageous. Ten thirty being on the early side, the restaurant part of the establishment was empty - except for my partner tucked away in the farthest corner booth. After I sat, I clicked my waiting Diet c.o.ke to my partner's Heineken. "How's the face?" Mike said. "Flesh wound, like you said, amigo," I said with a shrug. "No hearing loss either. And as a bonus, I get to wear this attractive bandage." Mike smiled. "What do you think IAB will say on their report?" "I don't know," I said. "I was too busy s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with them to get any kind of realistic gauge. Worst case, I'll probably get a reprimand for not following proper procedure with the ESU. I can't see the commissioner coming down too hard on us, considering how expedient we were in clearing this mess up for him." "That's true," Mike said. "I forgot about that." The waitress delivered our cheeseburgers, the buns soaked with grease. "Bacon, too?" I said, smiling at my plate. "Mike, you shouldn't have." "Hey, for you, partner," Mike said, lifting his bottle, "I go that extra mile." "I want to thank you, Mike," I said after a few chomps of burger heaven. I don't know if it was my pregnancy or what, but I was suddenly famished. I hadn't tasted food this intensely since I'd quit smoking eight months ago. "I don't remember if I did or not," I said as I popped an escaping morsel of bacon into my mouth. "Thanks for saving me out there." "Please," Mike said, tipping his bottle in my direction. "I watch your back, you watch mine. As far as I'm concerned, the police department consists of me and you. We're like that commercial for Vegas. What happens here stays here. Which reminds me." Mike put down his beer and lifted up some papers from the seat beside him. Even in the dim bar light, I could see they were print-outs. The burger I was chewing seemed to transform itself instantly into ketchup-flavored matchsticks as I spotted the rows and columns of numbers. "I found this in the fax machine yesterday," Mike said. "Phone company sent over a second copy of Scott's Local Usage Details for some reason. How do you like that? It looks just like the one that you put on my desk, except this copy has your phone number all over it." Across the scarred table, Mike drank in his beer, and my complete astonishment. "It's time to talk to me, partner," he said. "It's time to unburden your soul to Father Mike."

Chapter 62.

"LAUREN, C'MON," Mike whispered to me as I sat there numb and speechless. "You didn't think you could get one over on me, did you? I mean, you're good, better than good, at what we do, but we're talking about me here."I held my Diet c.o.ke up to my suddenly hot forehead. My G.o.d, what was I going to do now? I was busted. Busted lying to my partner. How could I have done that to him? Mike had a heart bigger than most continents. And he was my partner, my lifeline, my guardian angel on the street. I looked down at the surface of the table, then at the dark-paneled walls of the bar, anywhere but my partner's face. He was right, though. I had to confess. If there was anyone who I could - and should - spill my guts to, it was him. I had lied by omission and every other way, and he had killed a man because of it. Full disclosure was the least I could do for Mike. But wait a second, I thought. No! I couldn't. If Mike got jammed up with IAB, he'd roll on me. He'd have to. He couldn't lose his job. He was divorced, but he had two kids in college. He would have to tell what he knew, and the rest of the truth would come out, too. We'd be back to square one. Paul going to prison and Brooke without any means of support. No, I thought. It would actually be even worse now. I'd probably be going to jail along with Paul! The last thing I wanted to do to my partner was be cruel - but I didn't see any alternative as I tried to think things through. Finally, I pulled my eyes down from the gin mill's tin ceiling and smacked them into Mike's head-on. "Leave it alone, partner," I said. Mike made a face like I'd just shot him with a Taser. I thought the trembling, green bottle in his big hand was going to explode. For a few moments, his mouth worked silently, like a clubbed fish's. "L-L-Leave it alone?" he stammered finally. "You were sleeping with him, weren't you, Lauren? You were cheating with Scott Thayer, was that it? Why didn't you just tell me? I'm your partner, your friend." "Mike," I begged him with tears forming in my eyes, "please leave it alone." "I killed a man, Lauren!" Mike's whisper screamed at me. "There's blood on my hands." I stood, lifted my bag. I didn't want to threaten my partner, but I was backed into a corner. There was no other way. "Yes, there is, Mike," I said, dropping a twenty on my uneaten fries. "You did kill a man. I was the only witness, remember? That's why you of all people have to leave it alone."

Chapter 63.

ON MY WAY HOME, I called Keane and told him I felt dizzy and that I was taking a sick day. As I hung up, I realized it was one of the first times in a while I'd actually told him the truth. I felt like I was stepping into a crypt when I opened the front door of my empty house. I decided to go for a jog and suited up. I drove to Tibbetts Brook Park five minutes away and did my usual two laps around the lake with its art-deco pool house. Jeez, it was a beautiful afternoon. Bright, yet cool. Perfect for a run. I even spotted a crane standing among the sh.o.r.eline cattails as I was doing my stretches. But by the time I sat down afterward, sweating, behind the wheel of my Mini in the parking lot, I felt like c.r.a.p all over again. Back home, I checked my empty answering machine, then poured myself a gla.s.s of wine to calm my shot nerves. Then I remembered the baby on board. The gla.s.s slipped from my shaking hand as I was pouring it back into the bottle and shattered into a thousand pieces. Nice move, Detective, I thought as I gripped the cold edge of the sink. I was really on top of things lately, wasn't I? Really holding things together nicely. Looking down at the gla.s.s slivers, I wondered exactly how I could have been so horrible to my partner. Flat-out threatening Mike? Who was that cold-hearted b.i.t.c.h at the Piper's Kilt? It sure wasn't me. And how could I keep on doing this? I'd gone from omitting the truth, to outright lying, to threatening my friends. I didn't even want to think about what could happen next. To top it all off, I was completely alone in all this. It was insane. I couldn't even share with Paul the stress of trying to save Paul. This was it, I realized. Everyone has a breaking point, and I'd just arrived at mine. I couldn't keep up the 24/7 deception anymore. Lincoln was right: you couldn't fool all of the people all of the time. Not if you were Catholic, anyway. I needed to rejoin the human race. I'd been a secret agent in my own life for long enough. This spy had to come in from the cold. Step one was confessing my sins and unburdening myself. But not to my partner.I had to tell Paul.Admitting I had cheated would be excruciating, but in order to have a shot at getting ourselves and our marriage to the other side of this, Paul and I needed to be on the same page. I had to tell him that I knew what he did at the St. Regis, and that I forgave him for it. And that I needed his help to make sure our dangerous secret stayed a secret.

Chapter 64.

I WAS PULLING MY FAMOUS lime-c.u.min chicken out of the oven when Paul came in that night. With the possibility that this might be our last meal together, the least I could do was make it Paul's favorite. My breath caught as he rushed across the kitchen and hugged me right off my feet again. Now or never, Lauren, I thought. Time to own up. "Paul," I said. "We have to talk." "Wait," he said, taking a glossy folder out of his briefcase and slapping it onto the countertop. "Me first." On its cover was a photograph of some very pretty rolling hills covered with bright autumn trees. Inside were the floor plans of a variety of rather large houses. It was the sales folder for a luxury housing development somewhere in Connecticut.What the . . . ? Was he drinking again? I didn't smell any scotch on him."What's this?" I said. Paul spread out five different plans on the kitchen island with the solemnity of a fortune-teller laying out Tarot cards. "Take your pick, Lauren," he said. "Pick out your dream house. Which one do you love? Personally, I love them all." "Paul, listen," I said. "Now's not the time to fantasy-shop, okay? We -" Paul put his finger to my lips. "I'm not kidding, Lauren," he said. He rubbed his hands together briskly. "You don't understand. It's not a joke, not a fantasy. I stepped in it. You ready for this? Another firm, a hedge fund, wants to steal me away for more money. A lot more money." "What?" I said, looking at him, then glancing at the folder again. And then it happened. My eyes caught the heading on one of the pieces of paper in the sales folder.Astor Court, it said. And underneath it, St. Regis Hotel.The St. Regis? Wasn't that. . . ? That was where I had tailed Paul and his little blonde! What was this all about?I pulled out the sheet of paper. Numbers were written on it in a neat feminine script. "What's this, Paul?" I asked. "This isn't your handwriting, is it?" I expected Paul to suddenly turn nervous, but he glanced down at the paper nonchalantly. "That's the initial offer from the hedge fund, Brennan Brace. Vicky Swanson, their recruiting VP, made it to me over lunch at Astor Court at the St. Regis, like three, four weeks ago," Paul said, smiling at me. For a while, all I could do was blink. Lunch at the St. Regis? "Vicky Swanson?" I said, vividly remembering the woman I'd seen when I went down to surprise Paul. "What does she look like?" "Blonde," Paul said. "Late twenties, I guess. Kind of tall." Oh, G.o.d, I thought. No! It couldn't be.Another twist to this unending nightmare.Lunch at the St. Regis! Paul hadn't cheated! I gasped, struggling not to throw up. Just me!

Chapter 65.

I STOOD THERE in stunned silence. Paul hadn't ruined everything. It was me. I had. Just little old me. I was the one. Talk about putting a hitch in my dinner plans. I'd been preparing to dredge up our affairs in order to get Paul and me past them. Except I was the only one who'd had an affair! I stayed standing, dazed, my face frozen like the screen of a computer in safe mode. Paul laughed as he squeezed my hand. "It's a bombsh.e.l.l, I know," he said. "I just love you, okay? See, I actually thought Vicky was bulls.h.i.tting me. 'Hey, would you like to come work at twice your salary?' she said. So what your brilliant husband did, as a lark really, was say that if they tripled it, they had themselves a deal. "Vicky called me this morning with the good news. It's all approved, pending the paperwork! The only problem is, we have to move. To Greenridge, Connecticut! As if moving out of Yonkers to blue-blood horse country is a problem. They're even going to relocate us. Sell our place and give us a low-interest mortgage on our new one. This is it. Imagine! One person working, a baby, a new house with enough room for a nursery. The American Dream on steroids. This is the break we've been waiting for, Lauren." My head was spinning like a blender on ice crush. I couldn't believe it. Not only was I the only one to have cheated . . . But we'd just hit Lotto? I sank onto my stool like a boxer after a very bad round. "I love it, Lauren - I've actually robbed you of the power of speech," Paul said with a laugh. "Wait," he said, taking a Sam Adams out of the fridge. "Didn't you say you wanted to talk to me about something?" I might have been on the verge of simultaneous heart and brain failure, but I wasn't stupid. I'd learn to live with the secret of my affair somehow, I decided. Especially since I'd just found out that I was the only one who had actually had one. "Oh, right," I managed to mumble. "Do you want rice or stuffing?"

Chapter 66.

PAUL AND I MADE LOVE that night for the first time since I got pregnant. I'd clicked into deep-cleaning survival mode due to his latest revelations and was folding some laundry, when I spotted a black teddie that I'd tried to seduce Paul with one afternoon before everything crazy started. Before I knew what I was doing, I was taking off my jeans and slipping into the best of Victoria's Secret. There wasn't even any cringing mental debate when I saw the s.e.xy version of myself in the bathroom mirror. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s were already larger - oh, goody!From the suddenly stunned look on Paul's face when I came into the bedroom, I gathered he thought so, too. The Wall Street Journal he was reading dropped from his fingers sheet by sheet until he was holding nothing but air."Well, well. Looks like you're going to score twice in one day, cowboy," I said as I ripped the top sheet off the bed, sending the financial pages flying. That was pretty much the extent of our foreplay. I don't know what had gotten into me. Could I blame my hormones? Why not? I was demanding and very specific in bed. At first, Paul looked a little shocked. Not that he didn't comply with every command. Obedient and shocked. I felt something primal take hold of me, and I let it. Isn't that one of the big points of s.e.x? We tear off our clothes, our inhibitions, the trappings that society demands. Thousands of years of civilization - what's right, what's wrong - are all tossed out the window and we're back to square one. s.e.x is the truth under all the lies. We are alive, it screams!Right before the grand culmination, and it was grand, I opened my eyes and stared at Paul's handsome face above me. I looked into the steely blue of his shining eyes and suddenly I knew.It was official. We'd won each other back.

Chapter 67.

"MY G.o.d, LAUREN," Paul said, pulsing like a lightning bug beside me afterward. "What got into you? And your b.o.o.bs?" "I know," I said, punching him playfully on the chest. "Now tell me that joke again about you tripling your salary.""The real joke of it is that it's not a joke," Paul said as he stared up at the ceiling. "How about that? One day, you're hopelessly stuck in the rat race. And then the next, pow! Your ship has come in. Make that a couple of ships."Paul rolled over and kissed my stomach. "Hey, wait. We haven't thought about a name. Any suggestions?" I said. "Emmeline," Paul said. "A little House of Windsor, I know, but if she looks half as regal as her mom, she's going to need a name that fits. Besides, she has to get a leg up on the compet.i.tion at Greenridge pre-K." "My, my," I said. "Sounds like you've been thinking about this. But it could be a boy." "Hmm," Paul said. "Let's see. Melvin has a certain ring to it, don't you think? I've always been partial to Cornelius. Call him 'Corny' for short." I tickled Paul under his arms until he sat up. "You're the one who's corny, buster." "Hey, I just thought of the coolest thing this windfall is going to do for us," he said."We can up our anytime minutes? We'll be able to simonize now at the car wash?" I said and grinned. This was the way Paul and I used to be - silly."Very funny, Lauren," Paul said. "I'm serious. You can finally quit that screwed-up job of yours." I stared at him. Paul had always been supportive of my career. Was he serious? "I know how important being a cop is to you, and I've never said this before," he said. "But, c'mon. The hours. The smell of death. Do you have any idea how you look when you come home sometimes? G.o.d, I hate it. I've always hated it, actually. It takes too much out of you." I stared into s.p.a.ce, remembering the recent confrontation I'd had with Mike Ortiz. Maybe Paul was right. I loved my job, but family was more important. I'd certainly proved that during the past week. "Maybe you're right," I finally said. "This is what we've always dreamed about. You and me and our baby together. Now it's here. It's just . . . wow. It feels surreal. Don't you think?" "You're my world," Paul said, tears starting in his eyes. "You always have been, Lauren. This job offer - it's just an offer. I'll do whatever you want. Go. Stay. I'll quit my job, if you want." "Oh, Paul," I said, wiping his eyes. "Our ship really has come in, hasn't it?"

Chapter 68.

MIKE'S DESK WAS EMPTY when I came into the squad room the next morning. When I asked my boss where Mike was, he reminded me of the mandatory two-week leave for officers involved in a shooting. As I sat down, I felt another stab of guilt about what I had said to Mike. How do you like that? Mike was traumatized, extremely psychologically and emotionally vulnerable, and I had gone and threatened him. Some partner I was. Some friend. I rocked back in my chair, looking around at the sallow walls of the squad room. So I was actually going to leave. It almost seemed crazy, after all the work I'd done to get here. I remembered how intimidated I'd been when I finally received the a.s.signment. Bronx Homicide was one of the busiest and most renowned squads in the world, and I was unsure about what I could contribute. But I'd done it. It had taken a lot of hard work, guts, and straight A's in college Spanish to make a place for myself here, and I'd managed to pull it off.But everything I'd accomplished was pretty much gone now, I knew. As I sat there, I could feel it. Or couldn't feel it, actually. What sustains you as a cop is the pure joy of being one of the good guys. That's where the movies usually get it wrong. Most cops I knew were good people. The best.But with everything that had happened, I'd squandered that feeling. Good guys don't cheat. Good guys don't lie. Paul was right, I thought, turning on my computer. I was a stranger here now. I didn't belong anymore. It was time to get out, before something else happened.

Chapter 69.

I BROUGHT UP SCOTT'S FILE and, for the better part of an hour, went over all the reports I'd written, every one. Then I planned to go over them again. The news of my pregnancy and Paul's good fortune would cover the reason behind my early retirement, but some cynical eyebrows would still be raised. Definitely the IAB's. Before I made things official, I needed to make triple sure I'd covered my a.s.s. Not to mention my tracks. And Paul's. I was forty minutes into the paperwork when my LT came out of his office, carrying a set of bolt cutters and a cardboard box. He dropped them both loudly on my desk. "I just got a call from the deputy chief's office," he said. "Scott's wife, Brooke, requested that someone clean out Scott's locker and bring his stuff by her house. You're elected." Yeah, like I really wanted to see Brooke Thayer again. Wallow a little more in the devastation I'd helped cause that family. "What about the guys on his task force?" I said. "Wouldn't his partner, Roy, like to do it?" My boss shook his head. "How about you, boss?" I said. "Maybe it would be good for you to get out of the office. Get some sun." Keane tilted his stoic Irish brow at me. "As nice as it is of you to think about my well-being," he said, "Scott's wife asked specifically for you." I nodded my head. Of course she had. I didn't really think I'd get off that easy, did I? "How's this? You get that done and take the rest of the day," my boss said. "I think you came back too early anyway. If you want my opinion. Who knows when your IAB buddies might come back. I was you, I'd milk the dizzy thing for at least another week." "Aye, aye, boss man," I said, saluting him as I stood. I didn't know why, but I was going to miss Keane. The second-floor DETF offices were, thankfully, empty. Good, I thought, going back into the locker room and snipping through Scott's Master Lock with the cutters. I was starting to realize why cops made people nervous. Guilty people, especially. There wasn't much in Scott's locker. I removed a spare uniform, a couple of cardboard boxes of .38 rounds, a Kevlar vest. Behind a dusty riot baton, I found a fancy bottle of cologne, Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier. I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone before I dabbed some on my wrist. There was a bang as I dizzily head-b.u.t.ted the door. Yep. It was the same stuff Scott had worn that night with me. I was lifting out a pair of dress shoes from the floor of the locker when I spotted a fat envelope underneath them. Oh, Jesus! I'm not kidding, I dropped the black shoes as if they were burning coals. I didn't want to look in the envelope, but I knew I had to. I opened the flap with a pencil. It was money, just as I'd suspected. A lot of it. Four or five fat rubber- banded knots of worn bills. Mostly hundreds and fifties, but there was also an impressive number of twenties and tens. Ten, maybe fifteen thousand dollars, I thought as a migraine exploded above my left eye. Let's see, I thought. How does fifteen grand get into a Narcotics cop's personal locker? Scott didn't trust banks? The tooth fairy was making precinct rounds? Or, more likely, he was bad. Scott was a bad cop, wasn't he? "Scott," I whispered as I stared at the dirty green, crumpled edges of the bills. "Who in G.o.d's name were you?" What was I supposed to do now? Hand it in to my boss? Scott's case was all but closed. Did I really need the lid popping back open? Then I realized the solution was simple. I tucked the envelope into the right shoe as far as it would go and dropped the shoes into the box. If Brooke wanted to open up that can of worms, so be it, I thought, slamming the locker shut. It was up to her, not me. Bringing ugly truths to the forefront was definitely not in my job description anymore.

Chapter 70.

IT TOOK ME ALMOST AN HOUR in b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper traffic to get out to Brooke's house in Sunnyside. I left my unmarked police car double-parked as I trotted to the front door with Scott's work possessions. This visit definitely wouldn't be sweet, but I was determined to make it as short as humanly possible. After I rang the doorbell, I noticed a child's chalk drawing of an American flag on the driveway. I rang the doorbell a second time. It took me another three minutes of ringing to decide n.o.body was home. I was tempted to leave the box at the back door with a note, but I couldn't be cruel to Brooke. I decided to head back to my Impala for a little sit-and-wait, when I heard something m.u.f.fled and indistinct.It was coming from inside the house near the door. I finally identified the noise. Sobs. Somebody was crying in there. Oh, G.o.d, not this.I knocked on the door this time. "Brooke?" I called out. "It's Lauren Stillwell. I'm here with Scott's things. Are you all right?" The weeping only increased in volume. So I turned the k.n.o.b and let myself in. Brooke was on the stairs curled up into herself. She looked like she was in shock. Her eyes were open, but her face was expressionless. Tears were running down her cheeks. I panicked for a second. Had she hurt herself? I looked around for an empty pill bottle. At least there wasn't any blood. "Brooke," I said. "What is it? What's going on? It's Detective Stillwell. Can you talk to me?" I kind of patted her tentatively at first, but after a minute of the muted sobbing, I put down Scott's box and hugged her tightly. "There. C'mon. It's going to be okay," I said. It wasn't, but what else could I say?The house, I could see, was messy on a level only toddlers could achieve. The toy-strewn living room looked like a page out of an I Spy book. I knelt down on the floor. I spy with my little eye a woman in the midst of a complete nervous breakdown, I thought.It took another couple of minutes for Brooke to snap out of it. She finally took a deep breath that probably relieved me more than it did her. I went and found a box of tissues in the pantry. "I'm sorry," Brooke finally said, taking one. "I was napping on the couch. I woke up when you pulled in, and then I looked out and saw you holding his things and . . . it was like it was happening all over again." "I can't imagine your pain," I said after a pause. Brooke's tangled blonde hair fell in her face as she bowed her head. "I don't . . . I don't know how I'm going to do this," she said, beginning to cry again. "My mom took the kids, and I still can't function. I can't leave the house, answer the phone. I thought the panic attacks would stop after the funeral, but they seem worse now." I struggled for something to say, something that might help her. "Have you looked into group therapy?" I tried. "I can't get into all that," Brooke said. "My mother-in-law and step-mom help with the kids so much as it is and -" "I'm not a psychologist, Brooke," I said. "But maybe you need to be with people like you, who have lost a spouse. n.o.body else can understand what you're going through. How could they? And don't worry about leaning on people in order to get better, honey. You're a parent. You have to heal yourself in order to be there for your kids." I don't know if Brooke bought my little pep talk, but at least she'd stopped crying and her eyes were focused. "Is that what you would do?" she said. Her desperate gaze seized me, pinned me to the wall. "Please tell me what to do. You're the only one in this whole thing who seems to remotely understand." I swallowed the lump in my throat. Brooke Thayer was looking to me for guidance? How could I go on and on fooling this woman? How could I just stand there, continuing to keep my mouth closed about what had really happened? What was I made of? Talk about sc.r.a.ping the bottom. "I'd get the therapy, Brooke," I said. Who are you kidding? I thought. You're the one who needs therapy. Brooke glanced at the cardboard box I'd brought. "Could you take those things downstairs into Scotty's office for me?" she said. "I haven't been able to go in there yet. I can't deal with all that now. I'm going to put some coffee on. Will you have some with me, Detective?" I wanted to say no. With a bullhorn. Brooke and I were the last two females on Earth who needed to bond. But like any red-blooded American woman given the choice between her sensible desires and a guilt-laced obligation, I, of course, agreed. "That would be really great. I could use some coffee. And please, my name is Lauren."

Chapter 71.

I BLINKED AS I MADE MY WAY down the Thayers' creaky, musty bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. Wasn't the point of love affairs to have no strings attached? I had to get out of here before I was put in charge of sorting Scott's grammar school pictures, and then his underwear drawer. I walked past a water heater and the laundry room and finally opened a plywood door covered with a Giants poster featuring Michael Strahan. I stood still on the threshold after I turned on the light.After the dark, oily-smelling outer bas.e.m.e.nt, I was expecting to enter a typically male bas.e.m.e.nt office. Tools scattered on a plywood desk. Maybe a dot-matrix printer on top of piles of Sports Ill.u.s.trated in the corner.So when I feasted my eyes on what looked like Don Corleone's office from The G.o.dfather, I have to admit, I was a little surprised.The walls were paneled in dark-stained oak. The antique mahogany desk looked like something made from an old ship. On top of it sat an Apple PowerBook. There was a black leather couch and, on the wall to my right, a 42-inch Plasma TV. On top of a low bookshelf behind the desk, I counted three cell phones and a BlackBerry busily charging. Oh brother, I thought, dread plunging through my nervous system as I put down the box beside the laptop. First, the money in Scott's locker, now this fancy hideaway in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his house. I'd chosen a real multifaceted guy to sleep with, hadn't I? Maybe between stuffing dirty money under his footwear and sleeping with married cops, Scott was Batman.I sank into the leather office chair and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Discovering Scott's executive den made me more than a little concerned. Could he have made an itinerary of where he was heading the night he was killed? In my mind, I pictured a leather-bound calendar book with Lauren 11PM written right under the date of his death. Stranger things had happened in homicide cases.I hastily looked through the laptop, BlackBerry, and cell phones but, thankfully, didn't find my name or number anywhere. After I was done, I noticed a file cabinet and an armoire-size metal locker standing in the left-hand corner of the room. I listened for Brooke's footsteps on the stairs as I stepped toward them. Both, of course, were locked. I tossed Scott's desk before I found a tiny key ring among the contents of the pencil holder. The key opened the cabinet but not the locker. My sweaty fingers nearly slipped off the handle as I rolled open the first heavy drawer. I was partially relieved when I saw that the files looked like typical home office stuff. Folders marked "Income Tax," "Credit Cards," "Car Repairs," "Dentist." "Lauren?" I heard Brooke call down from the top of the stairs. "Are you all right?" I hope so, I thought. "Just a minute," I called, riffling through more files. "I'm almost finished, Brooke." I turned to leave after closing the last file drawer. But then I had to stick my hand under the top drawer of the desk, a nasty Homicide cop habit. And found a DVD carefully taped to its underside.

Chapter 72.

MY HEART RICOCHETED off my chest as I peeled the DVD away from the double-sided tape. "INSURANCE" was written across it in blue marker.Turning it in the fluorescent light, I found Scott's ever-increasing mysterious side really intriguing. Well, maybe terrifying was a more accurate description.What kind of insurance comes in DVD form? The kind a man who keeps his 401K under his shoe might need, I answered myself. Take it or leave it? I thought. I slid it into my bag. I guess I was taking it. A white minivan was pulling to a stop outside the cafe curtained kitchen window when I got to the top of the stairs. "Oh, they're back already," Brooke said with disappointment. "Taylor's a real bear about transition. And to tell you the truth, I don't know how Scott's mom will react to seeing you. She's more devastated than me, if that's possible. Can we take a rain check on the coffee? Maybe it would be best if you left by the front door so she doesn't see you." "Of course, Brooke," I said. She seemed to have pulled herself together enough to throw me out on my ear politely. That was some progress, I guess. Though, in truth, she didn't have to tell me twice to get the h.e.l.l out of there. "And don't forget," I called back as I hit the front door, "find out about group therapy. Okay, Brooke?" Wow, I thought, as I turned over the Chevy's engine. Group therapy. If that wasn't the most cliched nonsense to bleat at somebody in real distress, I didn't know what was. Why didn't I recommend past-life regression therapy while I was at it? The words that I could make come out of my mouth were just incredible lately. I glanced down at the pilfered DVD in my bag. Not to mention the actions I was capable of. The squad car's tires made the asphalt bark as I dropped the transmission. I was really getting this cold-hearted b.i.t.c.h thing down pat. And I hated every second of it.

Chapter 73.

IT WAS LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER when I pulled off the Van Cortlandt Park South exit off the Major Deegan in the Bronx. I swung a quick U-turn onto the service road for the Van Cortlandt Park Golf Course, reputed to be the oldest public golf course in the United States. I wasn't looking to improve my short game, just to get some privacy in the course's parking lot, one of the oldest NYPD patrol car hiding spots in the United States. The CD/DVD slot on my laptop rang like a spent Glock clip as I fumbled with Scott's "Insurance" DVD. I managed not to break it in my haste to get it started. Maybe Scott had gotten the spelling wrong, I thought after a minute of watching the screen intently.This wasn't insurance.It was surveillance.Vintage surveillance identified by the helpful 10:30 AM, July 22 prominently displayed in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.The star of the film was a soft-looking, middle-aged Hispanic man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and strolling along a city street, seemingly without a care in the world. I deduced the setting was New York City when the Latino gentleman stopped to eat lunch by himself at an outdoor restaurant across from Union Square Park. And that the subject had some expendable income as the film quickly cut to him getting out of a taxi and entering the Ralph Lauren flagship store on the corner of 72nd and Madison. Was this guy a drug dealer? Considering the tape's source, and the fact that the camera seemed to be rolling from the side porthole window of a van, I sure didn't think he was a Telemundo weatherman. Next, the tape showed the man leaving the upscale clothing store, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with expensive-looking bags, and entering another taxi. The time in the corner flipped forward half an hour to show the subject exiting the cab and entering the grand front entrance of the Four Seasons hotel on East 57th Street. Everything was coming up first cla.s.s.Then the camera's vantage point suddenly changed from street level to the dizzying ledge of a thirty- or forty-story high-rise. The camera panned forward and then down and the time in the corner read 6:10 PM, July 22.It skimmed past the roof of the Four Seasons until one of the balconies on the 58th Street side of the hotel came sharply into focus. After a few minutes more of silent surveillance, the camera panned down, down, down, to the street, until it zeroed in on a homeless woman on the corner of Park. ". . . the wages of sin, my Jesus. Oh, my Jehovah, forgive them, for they know not what they do," came in clearly, as well as the rattle of her change-filled coffee cup. Somebody must have turned on the shotgun microphone, I figured. As the camera panned back up and stayed on the penthouse balcony, the ambient sounds of the city could be heard. The dull roar of traffic. A far-off siren. New York, New York.Twenty long minutes of that riveting doc.u.mentary coverage later, there was another cut. At first, I thought maybe the DVD had blanked out, but then I noticed that the time in the corner had jumped forward seven hours to 1:28 AM, July 23.The DVD hadn't gone blank, I realized. It had just gone from day to night. There still wasn't much to see. For two minutes, other than the faint sheen from the streetlight on the metal railing of the balcony being observed, it was pitch-black. Then, suddenly, there was a bright flash, and the entire balcony was flooded with a strange, greenish light. The surveillance team had started filming in infrared, I realized. Those guys sure had access to some really neat toys. Did Scott's task force think the pudgy Hispanic man was going to do a big drug deal out on his hotel balcony? Maybe they were hoping he would crack the sliding gla.s.s door, and they'd be able to overhear something? I actually never got the chance to find out. Because after fifteen more minutes of empty balcony in infrared, there was a very intrusive banging sound, and the camera panned upward about ten feet until it showed the hotel's roof. A portly man in a tuxedo and a young woman hanging more out than in a gold-sequined party dress emerged from a service door next to the elevator housing. The camera closed in on them as they started kissing and groping pa.s.sionately against an air-conditioning unit. You could see the woman's mouth moving, and then there was a shriek as the shotgun mike was adjusted and she could be heard up close and personal. "Wait a second," she said. Then she pulled her shimmering party dress over her head. She must have been really smashed, because it would have been easier to let it fall. Underneath, she was wearing just a G-string.What the -? I thought, watching in shock.

Chapter 74.

"AH, THAT'S MUCH BETTER," the girl on the screen said, twirling around to show off her attributes, which were impressive, I had to admit. She finally stopped and kissed the man hard on the mouth. She grabbed his outstretched hand and ran it down her body. "Abracadabra! I've made my dress disappear." The man laughed. "You're crazy," he said. "And shameless. I like that in a woman." "Now it's your turn," the woman said. "Let's see what you have to offer." "I don't know," the man said skeptically. I couldn't see his face because his back was to the camera. "All these windows. Somebody might see." "How? You can't even see your hand in front of your face," the young female exhibitionist said. "C'mon, John. Have some b.a.l.l.s for once in your life. Have some fun!" "I'll think about it," the man said. "I just have a little business to attend to first." Turning around, the man lowered his large head, and then there was a loud, snorting sound. "Hey, save some for me, will ya?" the woman said, coming over. "You sound like a Piggy Wiggy." There was another snort. "This s.h.i.t is sweet," the man named John said. "Not like that other c.r.a.p you brought last time. My nose was bleeding for a week. I had to tell my wife it was dry sinuses." "Another word about your wife," the girl said, "and I'll go downstairs to your room right now and wake her sorry a.s.s up. Now, I snort and you strip." "What the beautiful lady wants," the man said as he pulled off his jacket, "the beautiful lady gets." I cringed, hovering the cursor over the "fast forward" b.u.t.ton as the man unbuckled his belt. He fell over as he was trying to pull his pants and underwear over his shoes. His pale flanks would have probably shone without the infrared as he unsuccessfully tried to right himself. Then he turned, and the camera did a quick close-up on his face. And I clicked on the media player's "pause" b.u.t.ton so hard I nearly cracked the mouse. It was Bronx district attorney John Meade. I sat there, trying not to hyperventilate, as the significance of everything dawned on me. I already knew Scott was a bad cop. Had he been stealing money from raids? Robbing drug dealers? Whatever. It didn't matter. He was definitely not doing what he was supposed to. And here, on this particular surveillance, he'd stumbled upon a real, unexpected bonus. I looked at the important lawyer, his bare sack-of-meal belly, the red eyes above his doped-up half smile.By accident, or maybe not, Scott had captured the one man most capable of hurting him - the district attorney for the borough where he worked and stole. In the most compromising position imaginable. Having an affair and doing c.o.ke.You couldn't get this kind of backup insurance from Aflac, I thought. I listened to the rumble of traffic on the highway behind me.I couldn't believe it. Lies. Dirty money. Now blackmail. Scott hadn't been Batman after all. He'd been Harvey Keitel in Bad Lieutenant.The dirt just kept on coming. I closed the lid of my laptop as I started my car. I was in this up to my neck.

Chapter 75.

THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up with the surprising and somewhat bizarre idea that it was a good time to take a week of saved-up vacation. And starting Monday, that is exactly what I did. In spite of everything, I actually had a fairly good time. Instead of s.e.x, lies, and videotape, it was s.e.x, food, and jogging, mostly in the reverse order. I divided my mornings and afternoons between spending quality time with the crane at Tibbetts Brook Park and learning how to cook like Julia Child again. Every night, I made sure Paul came home to a new, knock-his-socks-off homemade meal: red wine pot roast with porcini, roasted duck breast with black truffles, and his personal favorite, grilled dry-aged porterhouse with twice-baked potatoes. And it wasn't just his socks that were knocked off usually. Our life in the bedroom was back on track, and maybe even better than ever. Honestly, we couldn't get enough of each other. While we hugged in the dark afterward, a kind of fugue would settle over me, and everything - the dark past, the uncertain future - would suddenly go away. Then the ax finally fell on Thursday of my vacation week. It came in the form of a phone call out of the blue. It was ten o'clock and I was unlacing my Reeboks when I noticed the blinking message light. No news had meant good news for so long.So, who was calling me at home on my vacation? I pressed the message b.u.t.ton to find out."Detective Stillwell, this is a.s.sistant district attorney Jeffrey Fisher from the Bronx County Office. I know you're on vacation, but we're going to need you to come in and tie up a few loose ends on the Thayer case. Tomorrow at ten will be good for us. Bronx County Courthouse, second floor." I played the message over and over again.What disturbed me the most was that I had a lot of friends in the Bronx DA's Homicide office, but I knew Fisher the least. It seemed like maybe he had drawn the short straw on a distasteful task. And what about the semicasual tone of the message? Tie up a few loose ends sounded like it wasn't a big deal. Which didn't really make sense when I considered the officious- sounding ordering of the where and when at the end. I'd used the same textbook-law-enforcement implication that something mandatory was voluntary in trying to get witnesses to talk to me.Witnesses, I thought, closing my eyes.Not to mention suspects.For a moment I panicked, beginning to think about what might have happened, where I might have screwed up, what the DA might try to lay on me. But then I stopped myself. I knew how this game was played, and I knew even in the worst-case scenario, I had the advantage. Because the fact was, even if the DA came out and accused me and Paul of murdering Scott, they still had to prove it. Which was going to be hard, since there were no fingerprints, and Paul had never mentioned to anyone what he had done. Not even to me. You could know somebody did something and they could still walk. I knew that full well. You had to prove your case in a court of law, and you needed evidence just to get there. Sitting by my phone, I tried to turn my fear into something useful. If the DA's office wanted to play hardball, I decided, then I would be ready for them. My hand started trembling before I could reach the "delete" b.u.t.ton, though.Yeah, right. Who was I kidding?How the h.e.l.l would I pull this one off?

Chapter 76.

AFTER A RESTLESS AND UNNERVING NIGHT with almost zero sleep, I decided to strap my gun and badge under my favorite Armani Exchange black suit. The skirt had a side slit in it that ordinarily would disqualify it as work clothes, but this wasn't going to be a typical day at the office, was it? I peeled off my bandage and teased my freshly razor-cut and colored hair before sliding into a pair of Steve Madden open-toed sling backs. My meeting at the DA's office was going to be combat, right? I'd need every weapon I could come up with for this encounter with the law. I gave myself plenty of time to swing by the Bronxville Starbucks for a venti. I finished it by the time I found a parking spot in Lou Gehrig Plaza across the street from the courthouse. I stared out at Yankee Stadium at the bottom of 161st Street, hoping maybe some of the Bomber mystique would rub off on me. Unfortunately, from where I was sitting, it was looking like two outs in the bottom of the ninth. It was nine thirty, a full half hour before my scheduled meeting, when I located Fisher at his desk on the second floor. He was sitting with three other male a.s.sistant district attorneys. "Hey, fellas. How's it going?" I said, staring into their eyes, one by one. I'd done all I could to look my best. From the head swiveling of just about every male court officer, defendant, and counselor I'd pa.s.sed in the marble halls, I figured that I'd cleaned up pretty well. I popped a b.u.t.ton on my jacket, giving the guys a peek at my Glock in the pancake holster pressed tightly against my stomach. If this had been a cartoon, eyeb.a.l.l.s would have been popping out and big red hearts would have been banging in and out of the lawyers' chests. A hot chick and a gun? Hard to beat. Men are nothing if not predictable. "You have the right to remain silent, guys," I said, "but this is ridiculous. Don't you think?" There were "gotta go's" and "see ya, Jeff's," and, one by one, the lawyers moved along until it was just me and my friend Fisher in the cramped cubicle. I nearly knocked him out of his rolling chair as I slid my b.u.t.t up on the side of his desk. The key to winning any battle is to put your opponent off balance. Hit the weak spot, and don't let up until it's all over but the shouting. The one thing I remembered about Fisher, a balding, hangdog-looking thirty- something, was the way he had tried to look down my dress at a Piper's Kilt retirement party the year before. "You said you wanted to see me, Fisher?" I said. I watched his face flush the brightest red this side of a stoplight. "Yes, uh, well, Detective," the ADA stammered. "I mean . . . uh, it's probably nothing. I'm sure it is. Where did I put that file? It'll just take a second." As I watched him flail around over his desk, I had the feeling I'd already won this round. Interrogations were power struggles. Up until a moment before, with his cryptic message left on my machine, Jeffrey Fisher thought that he was in charge. But not anymore. ADAs have a built-in inferiority complex when it comes to Homicide cops. The fact that Fisher was probably attracted to me kind of sealed the deal. He would tread lightly. Whatever inconsistency he brought up, I would deny, and he would accept it. What had I been worrying about? I owned this meeting. Who was Fisher? Some nine-to-five schlep lawyer who was afraid to set foot on the dangerous streets of the Bronx? I would walk out of here blameless and free. I could feel it. But then, out of nowhere, like some horrible apparition, Fisher's boss, Jeff Buslik, appeared. Buslik didn't look tongue-tied. In fact, he seemed extremely calm and collected. Malevolently calm. He didn't even seem impressed with my outfit. He kissed me chastely on the cheek like I was his sister. "Lauren, how's it going?" he said. "Actually, I called the meeting. Why don't we head into my office?" Oh, no, I thought.Oh f.u.c.king no!

Chapter 77.

I FOLLOWED JEFF. His bureau chief's office was a corner one, facing the stadium. You could see the Yankees right-field seats out the copper-rimmed window. "Hey, you can spy on the bleacher creatures from here," I said. "How do you think I clear my fugitives' docket?" Jeff joked. He looked down at his desk pensively, as if searching for the right words. "Listen, Lauren. I like you. I really do. You're a terrific cop and . . ." "I'm married, Jeff," I said with a grin. "I know that. Okay. I guess I'll just come out and ask. Did you have anything to do with the death of Scott Thayer?" There it was. The bomb blast I'd been hoping would never come. I felt deaf for a second. I could almost feel my shadow burn into the wall behind me. As I fought to gain back my breath, I wondered if they could process me right here in the courthouse. Send me out with the other prisoners in the van to Rikers Island. "Of course," I said after a long beat. I was smiling to let him know I thought he was joking. "I was the Homicide investigator in charge of his case." "That's not what I meant," Jeff said quietly. I looked into the prosecutor's eyes. What could I say now? What could I do? Do something, a voice told me. Fight. Or die. "Yeah, well, what the h.e.l.l do you mean, Jeff? What is this? Scott's case is closed. I remember because the lid almost took my head off when it slammed. Has IAB called you? Is that what this is all about?" "Three days ago, this office was contacted by the attorney of one Mr. Ignacio Morales," Jeff said. "He was a bouncer at the club Wonderland, where you went to apprehend the Ordonez brothers." Oh, c.r.a.p. "Yeah, I remember Mr. Morales," I said. "Did Mr. Morales happen to mention that he was about to rape me in the club's bas.e.m.e.nt?" Jeff held up his hand as if to swat away that minor detail. "He claims that the gun they found on Victor Ordonez's body was removed from your handbag in a routine security search at the nightclub." I made my eyes bulge to project my outrage. I think Nicole Kidman would have been envious. "And you believed this?" I said. "Well, actually no," Jeff said. "I trust that drug-pushing vermin about as far as I could bench-press him." Jeff reached into his drawer and took out a piece of paper. "But then I saw this." It was Scott's LUDs. Had my partner sent them to him? Even in my panic, I didn't believe that. Ever- efficient, never-miss-a-thing genius Jeff must have asked for his own copy. I'd been somewhat expecting this to come up. So I came out the only way I had left to me - swinging. "So what?" I said. "So I knew Scott. We talked on the phone. Our relationship was n.o.body's business, so I never mentioned it. There a crime in protecting my privacy?" Instead of answering, Jeff took out another sheet of paper and pushed it across his desk. It was a photocopy of a parking ticket for a motorcycle. It was really nice of him to allow me the time to thoroughly read the highlighted date and the address. The Yonkers address half a block from my house. A cathedral's worth of panic bells went off inside me. I hadn't been expecting this one. "That Yonkers PD ticket was scratched on Scott's illegally parked vehicle a couple of hours before the coroner's time of death," Jeff said calmly. "I looked up the location on a map. "It's half a block from your house, Lauren. Talk to me here. Make all this make some sense. Because I have grand jury justification right now. A witness that saw you plant the gun. And evidence that puts Scott down the block from your house just before the ME's time of death. I've won cases with far less, Lauren. But you're a friend. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt before any formal proceedings. This is your first and last chance to tell me what happened, and to let me help you."

Chapter 78.