Linda Fairstein - The DeadHouse

"Maybe the guys don't even bother coming ashore anymore. Maybe 'don't ask, don't tell' is working better than anybody thinks."

"And maybe I'll just keep my fingers crossed for a quiet evening. Jake's supposed to be back from D.C. by now. We'll probably run up to Butterfield 81 for a steak. Why don't you hang out with us?"

"'Cause I've got a date. I'm gonna drop you off and go over to her place for dinner."

"And she is…?"

"A good cook."

"That's all you're telling me?"

"I'm not ready to go public." He grinned at me. "You're worse than my mother."

"Well, you've been much too secretive about what you're up to. Makes me suspect something more serious is going on. I hate to say the i word, but I'm beginning to believe that you're actually involved with someone. Especially after that heart-to-heart talk you had with me on our way home from Mercer's house."

"You'll be the first to know, blondie."

Mike dropped me at the entrance to Jake's building and the doorman helped me out of the car. "Mr. Tyler just came in himself a few minutes ago, ma'am. Asked if I'd seen you this evening."

"Thanks, Richard." I took the elevator upstairs and slipped my key in the lock. Jake was on the StairMaster in his den, a set of headphones linking him to yet another cycle of news on the television in front of him. He didn't see me come in. I took off my coat and gloves and sat in the leather chair behind him, waiting until he finished his exercise and stepped off the machine.

"I'm not so bad to come home to, am I?" he asked, walking over to kiss me on the nose. "Have you and Chapman solved this one yet? I've given you a week."

"My brain is spinning. Can we talk about your day?"

"I'll take a quick shower and then we can head out for dinner, okay?"

Despite the cold wind, we walked uptown to the restaurant, passing storefronts with their Christmas decorations and, now, all the signs for postholiday sales. We settled into a quiet corner banquette, and the dark, handsome decor of the room suited my mood. I was brooding about the week's events and the gloom that had enveloped this season that I so loved. Jake devoured his steak while I swiped a few of his perfect pommes frites to go along with my soup and salad, and we sipped a wonderful Burgundy.

By the time we were ready to go home, the temperature had dropped precipitously and we hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue to take us to the apartment. Once inside, I undressed and got into bed alongside Jake. I fell asleep with the lights still on and Jake still flipping the channels. When a nightmare awakened me at 3 A.M., I cradled myself against his body and tried to push out of my mind the autopsy photographs of Lola Dakota.

I had already bathed and dressed by the time he opened his eyes on Sunday morning. The coffee beans were ground and brewed, and I had taken the newspaper in from the doormat. Jake went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

"Scrambled? Sunny-side up? Omelette?"

"One egg over easy."

He looked over my shoulder at the paper. "Why do you start with the obituaries? Looking for business? Or are you just reading it, as my father used to say, to make sure your own name isn't in it?"

I put the section aside and set the table for breakfast. We lingered in the dining room for more than an hour, Jake working the Sunday crossword puzzle while I was determined to finish the tougher Saturday maze.

"What shall we do today?"

"How about the Frick? They've got an exhibition of Velazquez paintings. We can walk over there, spend an hour or two, and then come home and I can do some paperwork on the case."

"Are you all set for New Year's Eve? I mean, this won't get in the way, will it?"

"I expect it'll be fine." Joan Stafford was giving a dinner party for five couples in Washington. We were going to take a late afternoon shuttle down on Tuesday and spend the night with Joan and Jim, coming back early the next morning now that Mercer and Vickee had included us in their wedding plans.

This was the one holiday I hated. There was such an artificial air about the forced gaiety, and my favorite way of celebrating had always been to stay at home with friends. Joan was a superb hostess, and the idea of laughing and relaxing with her in front of a great fire, dining at her elegant table, then climbing the stairs to curl up for the night in the guest room of her Georgetown town house seemed a delightful way to welcome in another year.

"There's a winter storm warning for tomorrow evening. I guess we can always take the Metroliner."

I was rinsing the dishes when the phone rang for the first time. Take came back into the kitchen and put his arms around me, embracing me from behind and pressing his mouth against the top of my head. "That was Mike, darling."

"I've been waiting for this call." Tears had already formed and I fought them back.

"Bart Frankel died. They disconnected the life support this morning." He tried to turn me around to face him, but I stood at the sink, staring out the window at the gray day while the hot water ran over my hands. "I just want to hold you for a minute, Alex."

I shook my head.

"You're going to have to let me in one of these days." Jake rubbed his hand across my back. "Mike said to tell you he's got the search warrant for Frankel's office. He's on his way to New Jersey to get it signed so he can pick up the evidence this afternoon." He was massaging my neck with his right hand, his left still holding my waist. "This isn't your fault."

I didn't blame myself for Bart's death, but I was pained by the unfortunate chain of events that had been created from the moment Lola placed herself in the hands of Vinny Sinnelesi. She had just wanted to extricate herself from the violent relationship with Ivan Kralovic, but instead had become a pawn in the prosecutor's efforts to stage a sensational vote-getting stunt. So often I had heard Paul Battaglia remind his senior staff that you can't play politics with people's lives. I admired his wisdom.

Bart had clearly been in greater turmoil than anyone knew. Now he had died under circumstances that were at best mysterious, with his reputation tarnished and his debts substantial. And the children, I suddenly remembered, squeezing my eyes shut. There were three children who had to cope with both loss and disgrace.

I leaned over the sink, cupping my hands and filling them with steaming water, holding them against my eyes. "Let's take a walk, okay?"

I held on to Jake's arm as we made our way uptown to the small museum at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventieth Street. I tried to explain my feelings, speaking as the frost grabbed at my breath and formed rings that rose in the icy air. The need to explore the lives of the people whose tragedies came our way took us to intimate places I had no more desire to enter than the deceased would have had to let me in. For me, it was impossible to do this work with a clinical remove. I could evaluate evidence dispassionately, and I could make judgments about witness credibility with precision, but there was an emotional pull that nagged at my heart with every life that was lost.

We strolled through the stunning exhibit, on loan from the Prado in Madrid. When we had seen our fill of royal portraits, we reclaimed our things from the cloakroom and walked around the corner to Madison Avenue for a cup of hot chocolate. We had almost reached home when my beeper went off.

I saw the complaint-room number and stopped in the doorway to take out my cell phone. The supervisor answered and I identified myself. "It's Alexandra Cooper. What's up?"

"There's a woman looking for you. Her name is Sylvia Foote. Says she's a lawyer for King's College. Claims she even has your home number but can't find you anywhere, so I thought you wouldn't mind the beep."