Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

"Exactly-no motive whatsoever. My guess is it's just a prank gone terribly wrong. But with 9/11 and anthrax and the shoe bomber, the FBI's talking about prosecuting these kids to the fullest extent of the law, just to prove that they don't go after only dark-haired guys in turbans. These kids are toast. They're going to be-"

Manny was interrupted by a tinny rendition of the opening strains of George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone" emanating from somewhere under the table. She dived down, resurfaced with her Fendi bag from the designer's newest collection, and answered her cell phone before George could utter another note of his trademark tune.

Sorry, she mouthed silently at Jake. "Hi, Kenneth," she trilled into the phone. "What's up?"

Jake's eyebrows lowered. He still was a tad suspect of Manny's paralegal assistant, Kenneth, a former client whose knowledge of the law stemmed from the two times he'd been arrested. Kenneth consulted with Manny at least twenty times a day on items ranging from the latest gossip on the Web page of the New York Social Diary to the advantages of arguing stare decisis in a brief submitted to the federal second circuit court of appeals.

"Of course you were right to call. This is very important. Hang on just a minute." Manny rose from her chair and moved to the edge of the canopy, out of earshot. Jake stabbed at his peas.

In less than ten minutes, Manny returned to the table, but Jake kept his eyes focused on his plate.

"Guess why Kenneth was calling?"

"Special three-hour sale at Saks."

"Very funny. Actually, it was a sale at T.J. Maxx. I can restrain myself sometimes."

"Manny, I know your relationship is diff-well, special, that he honors you as his savior and you view him as your Eliza Doolittle, but…"

"But what? He's a talented kid who was born poor. Just because he's a diva doesn't mean he can't appreciate honest, hard work."

Manny had been assigned by the local court to represent Kenneth Medianos Boyd pro bono on charges of conspiracy to destroy evidence-drugs-by flushing it away. Then there was the time when he was nabbed for a wardrobe malfunction during the annual Greenwich Village Halloween parade. His alter ego, formerly a waitress and now the chanteuse Princess Calypso, lost some strategically placed plumage taken from turkeys dispatched the Thanksgiving before.

Manny immediately appreciated Kenneth's worth: a keenly dramatic fashion sense coupled with a paralegal certification obtained while behind bars before his drag reincarnation. Kenneth adored Manny because she treated him as a person with skill and brains. They cemented the bond while shopping at the TSE cashmere outlet; she offered him a job as her legal assistant.

"I know, I know, and he watches out for your backside. But does he have to call you so many times a day? What's the point of having an assistant if he's always ringing you? Kind of defeats the purpose of easing your workload."

"You're just jealous of the other men in my life." She glanced down at Mycroft to hide both her annoyance and her smile.

"'Men'? Last week, Kenneth wore heat-sensitive nail polish when he delivered those documents to my home. Started talking to me with pink nails, which became royal blue by the time he handed me the manila envelope. And let's not forget he was in a full-length evening dress."

"He's just a girl making an honest living as a chanteuse in downtown clubs, when he's not running my law office, writing my motions, collecting my bills, and keeping my clients happy on the phone so I can go off gallivanting to help with your cases."

Manny paused for breath, then continued. "Kenneth was calling because the mother of one of the Preppy Terrorists just phoned to say she wants to retain me as his defense attorney."

"I thought you said those kids were toast? Why would you want the case?"

"First, these kids are being railroaded to make them examples so that the government can say 'Look what we're doing to protect you from terrorism.'"

"Railroaded!" Jake pointed his fork at her. "You can't say that. All you know about this case is what you heard on the news. And we both know how inaccurate that is."

Manny pushed the accusatory fork away. "I know from experience how prosecutors work. Besides, this case is huge. When I show the government this kid is not guilty, I'll have more credibility in the future on other cases."

"Manny, so far you've dealt mainly with civil rights cases and nonviolent offenders," Jake said. "Are you prepared to tangle with terrorists and the federal government? This case is awfully risky."

"I'm prepared for anything. Gotta run. Sorry." Manny pushed away from the table, sloshing water out of the glasses on the table.

She paused to deliver a parting jab. "What about when you nearly got blown up trying to find Pete Harrigan's killer? It's okay for you to take risks but not me. Showing your age, aren't you?"

Jake winced. All he wanted was to shield her from harm. He struggled to keep the protective edge out of his voice. "Just be careful."

His calm words were like a gust of wind on a brush fire. Manny pivoted. "Don't talk to me like you're my keeper, Jake. We don't have any commitments to each other, remember? I'll call you tomorrow after I meet with the client." She was halfway across the street with Mycroft in tow before Jake could flag down the waiter for the check.

Tossing some crumpled twenties on the table, Jake set off in pursuit. With her cascade of red hair and electric pink sweater, Manny was as easy to track as a microburst. What he would do when he caught up with her, Jake wasn't sure. Vulcan mind meld maybe.

That might be the only way to make her see how irrational she was being. It was one thing to be a champion of the oppressed, quite another to be a sucker for some crackpot sob story. And how would she handle all the work this case would entail? The big-time criminal lawyers had a whole team to back them up; Manny had a drag queen paralegal.

Jake felt a sensation over his heart not caused by Manny's behavior. His cell phone vibrated. The display indicated it was his office. What timing.

"Rosen," snapped Pederson. "Get over to Fourteen West Fifty-third. Looks like the Vampire has struck again. And this time, he's left you a body."

Jake began working the moment his cab pulled up to the curb. As deputy chief medical examiner, his duties were coldly delineated by the chief medical examiner: Confirm the identity of the victim, what happened, where it happened, when it happened, and how it happened.

But he saw the scope of his work as larger than that. To him, every victim told a far more complex story than the blood spatter surrounding the body or the fibers and hairs clinging to it. The why and whodunit were often intricately woven into the historical fabric of the victim's life. Life merged with death.

Amanda Hogaarth's story began here on the spotless sidewalk outside the very expensive building where she had lived. Jake noted the shaken expression of the doorman who admitted him, and the rigid bearing of the concierge standing behind his desk. Somehow, these two had let a killer into what was supposed to be an enclave of safety.

Jake glanced around the marble-floored lobby with its plush but impersonal furnishings. Co-op, condo, or high-end rental? Co-ops, even large ones like this building, tended to be clubbier. The neighbors knew one another, at least in passing, from all the endless wrangling of the board of directors. In a condo or rental, Amanda Hogaarth would more likely have lived in anonymity.

Jake took the elevator of this pre-World War I relic to the thirteenth floor, where the door slid open on a maelstrom of activity. The police were conducting a door-to-door inquiry, interviewing the immediate neighbors. The crime scene techs had arrived with all their equipment. As he walked toward the open door of 13C, repeated flashes of light told him the police photographer was at work.