Linda Fairstein - Death Dance

"Anything I need to know?"

"Don't turn your back to him, Alex. He's vicious."

"I assume the commissioner told you he was with Galinova- arguing with her-just before she disappeared?"

"Take it wherever it goes. You don't need a pass from me." Battaglia's mantra had been consistent, no matter where the tentacles of an investigation led. I'd been given green light to do the right thing, which is all he asked of each one of us.

"So year answer is yes? I can stay on die case? And you tell

McKinney, please. I don't even want to see him."

"I want to know everything you develop before I read it in the Post with a Mickey Diamond byline. Got that?"

Diamond was the veteran courthouse reporter who snagged the best leaks from the NYPD brass, and when facts failed to fall in his lap, he fashioned the most creative sidebars in journalism.

"And when you know where you're going with Berk, I'll give you some background about his other run-ins with the law."

Battaglia always delivered one of his throwaway lines while I was on the threshold of the door. I turned back. "Crimes?"

"Nothing violent. Tax fraud. Some pretty sophisticated planning that's made him and everyone around him worth billions. Not millions. The B word. I've been trying to get the bastard for years. The feds took the investigation away from me when I couldn't put together a case that'd stick, but then in the end, neither could they," he said, smiling broadly again. "I may have some leverage for you when you come to need it."

"You want to tell me now?"

"I don't want to muddy the waters."

Maybe another tidbit would help. "The commissioner fill you in on the fact that Berk got hotfooted on a manhole cover late last night? And survived it?"

"Yeah. I wanted to make sure the PC thought it was accidental. You agree?"

"Had all the right signs. His favorite son was taking him out for a lobster dinner, and his driver was parked next to the manhole. Con Ed said they'd had more than-"

"I know, I know. Forty reports this year. We're going to do a grand jury investigation on the one from downtown. Throw last night's matter into it, too. See if it rises to criminally negligent homicide on that poor dogwalker who got hit last month."

I left out the fact of the television monitors in Berk's bedroom.

There would be time for that story when we figured out where the cameras were concealed. Otherwise, it would be one more question for which I couldn't provide an answer-a very bad way to start a Monday morning with Paul Battaglia.

Rose interrupted on the intercom. The mayor wanted Battaglia immediately, which suggested there was friction between him and the governor on an issue in which the district attorney figured centrally. He wanted me out of the room before he talked and made it clear by dismissing me before he picked up the phone from its cradle.

I called the squad to tell Lieutenant Peterson that I was officially attached to the case. From this point on, anylegal decisions-whether applications for warrants or sufficiency of probable cause for a suspect's arrest-would be made in consultation wartime. Peterson mentioned that he had seen Mike earlier in the day but didn't know whether he had gone down to the Met to work or was sitting out this shift.

The rest of my day was filled with the routine of my prosecutorial duties in the sex crimes unit. Lawyers on trial took precedence with often urgent issues that had arisen during the current courtroom proceedings. Detectives dropped in regularly for guidance about how to handle new complaints for which our pioneeringunit bad developed protocols. Advocates and victims themselves called to ask questions about the process they faced if they chose to report their crimes to the police. And friends came by every day to hangout with one another, tell war stories, and vent about the array of characters who presented themselves to us with endless stories of bad and bizarre human behavior.

Mercer Wallace phoned in shortly after six. "Heard your weekend took an interesting twist."

"Mike called you?"

"Let's say I hunted him down."

"Does he know Battaglia's put me on Talya's case?"

"Good going. No, he didn't say. He's at Lincoln Center. He's going to meet me for something to eat at Shun Lee West at seven o'clock. Want to join us?"

"Is it okay with him?"

"Hey, who's making the ask here? You're my date."

"I'll be there."

"You're not passing off Dr. Sengor's case, are you?"

"Not a chance. I'm getting antsy about the tox results. You think Jean and Cara are willing to hang around this week?"

"Another day or two. What are you going to do about the grand jury?"

"I'm ready to go as soon as we get confirmation on the drug testing."

"You talk to anyone in administration at Sengor's hospital?"

"Yes," I said. "Our perp has been suspended. Risk management didn't want to take the chance he'd be exposed to any other patients."

Liability in medical centers had become such an expensive prospect that most legal offices had been renamed "risk management units," responsible for the oversight of all problems that might lead to litigation.

"Double-edged sword. I hated to think he'd still be with patients, but this way we have no idea of his daily whereabouts."

"They wanted him to keep his beeper so they can stay on top of him, too. They've required him to respond to them twice a day. Suspended with pay is the way they handled that one. He's already called in twice, so the doctor in charge of the psychiatric department says he's cooperating."

"I'll see you at the restaurant?"

"Absolutely." I called my friend Lesley Latham to break my dinner date, apologizing for the last-minute cancellation. I took the cab to West 65 th Street and found Mercer and Mike seated at the bar.

I walked past his stool and patted Mike's shoulder.

"Of all the gin joints in all the Chinese restaurants in the world, you had to walk into mine?" he asked. "Who invited you?"

"Maybe I'm in the wrong place. I was supposed to meet a couple of my friends here. I guess that really is a gun in your pocket and you're not so happy to see me."

"I'll take the weight," Mercer said, embracing me. "I needed some Peking duck and the service is so much better when we cut Alex in. Figured it was time to get back in the Jeopardy! habit, don't you think?"

For as long as I could remember, since we'd started working on cases as a team more than a decade ago, the three of us stopped whatever we were doing when we were together to bet one another on the Final Jeopardy question at the end of the show. Mike had kept witnesses waiting at the morgue, interrupted cocktail partiesin full swing, and put the police commissioner on hold more than once to test his trivia knowledge against ours for twenty bucks a shot.

By the time the bartender served my drink, Mercer had coaxed him into turning the wall-mounted television set to the quiz show. We made small talk until Alex Trebek revealed the category the final question: Sports.

Mike and Mercer were both jocks who followed college and professional sports with great enthusiasm. Mercerhad turned down a football scholarship at the University of Michigan to join die NYPD. I put my twenty-dollar bill on the bar and brightened only slightly when Trebek's final answer involved a Yankee legend.

"Field named for Native American tribe where Babe Ruth hit his longest home run."

I could think of rival teams in the long history of my pinstriped favorites, but nothing about the names of any of their fields that qualified in this category. Fenway and the Jake wouldn't do it. Mike wanted to double the stakes, but Mercer was as puzzled as I and we held our ground.

The music ticked away the time as all three of the contestants seemed to be stumped.