"We knew that from the label you read."

"Yeah, but none of it was shipped until 1979. So that's the revised earliest date our skeleton went into the closet. That's why you need a good detective, instead of going on the stupid assumptions you lawyers make. Saves you a year of unnecessary digging."

"What other useful calls have you made?"

"Cold Case Squad. Scotty Taren caught the squeal. He's meeting me here later so we can run up to the morgue. See how far Dorfman gets today."

"Where does he even start on something like this that happened a quarter of a century ago?"

"My old man was walking a beat back then. Wouldn't it be a kick to think it was a case he could have solved? You just got to put yourself there in that time and place, think of the world the victim was living in."

"Easy to say."

"Think culture, Coop. Kramer vs. Kramer won the Oscar, Mother Teresa got the Nobel Peace Prize, Margaret Thatcher became prime minister of England, the Shah was booted out of Iran, Sophie's Choice was the bestselling book in America, Saturday Night Fever was the album of the year, Pittsburgh won the World Series, Martina beat Chrissie at Wimbledon, Spectacular Bid won the Kentucky Derby, and both John Wayne and Nelson Rockefeller died-but only one of them went in the saddle and it wasn't the guy who was supposed to. Are you there yet?"

"Close."

"There were eight hundred fifty-four homicides in the city, and two hundred sixty-three missing persons. Our babe fits somewhere in the middle of those numbers. I'm handing this to Scotty on a silver platter. I expect an ID by Monday. Where's Mercer?"

"He'll be here at one."

"I've got trial prep on a shooting from last summer with your psycho-colleague, Pedro de Jesus. If we start now, he may get himself up to speed by the spring thaw. I'll swing by later on."

He turned and bumped into Mickey Diamond, who was on the prowl to see what I knew about the rape pattern.

"I owe you a few rounds, Chapman. Lunch on me at Forlini's?"

"Not today, buddy," Mike said, trying to brush past the reporter.

"Did Chapman tell you he bet me fifty large that you'd be playing solitaire on Valentine's Day? I was dumb enough to think this was the real deal for you and Jake-"

No wonder Mike was trying to make a quick exit. "Wagering on my love life? Counting the days until Jake threw me back in the water? The sign of a true friend, Detective Chapman. Old maid, solitaire… nice to know you feel my pain."

I cracked open the window behind me and reached for a handful of snow off the top of the air-conditioning unit while Mike tried to apologize to me and shut Diamond up at the same time.

"Can you give me any scoops on the East Side case, Alex? Something I can quote to keep it on the front page tomorrow?"

"Nada. Scram, will you? I'll have news for you at the beginning of the week. Get lost. Follow Chapman and steer clear of me, okay?"

I finished rounding the icy slush into a ball and lobbed it at the back of Mike's head. "Don't write me off yet for Valentine's Day, sucker. The Post can always run another personal ad for me."

"Can't do worse than the first one," Mike said, wiping off the snow.

Several years back, on a very slow news day after I had taken over the unit, Diamond had written a piece that he titled "Legal Miss Who Misses Kisses." His theory was that I was crazy to take this job because no man in his right mind would want to date a woman who might confuse the first pass with an inappropriate touch-a criminal one.

"Harpo Marx, is he still alive? He's mute, right? Perfect for you. I'll see if I can find a number for him, blondie. Let me tell you what we ran into last night," Mike said, sauntering out of the office with Diamond at his side.

"Mike!" I tried to stop him but he didn't turn back. I didn't want him to leak word of the skeleton before I had a chance to tell the district attorney about it. It might come to nothing, but Battaglia would have my head if I made the wrong call on a story like that.

8

"Raise your right hand, place your left hand on the Bible, please. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Darra Goldswit answered me. "I do."

I was standing at the back of the room, behind the two tiers of seats in which twenty of the twenty-three grand jurors were arrayed in amphitheatrical fashion, facing the witness. To my left sat the foreman and his assistant, along with the secretary. The stenographer was seated beside the young woman to record every word spoken.

I had tried to calm Darra by assuring her there would be no surprises at this proceeding. The defendant had no right to be present. There was no defense attorney to cross-examine her. The questions I had reviewed with her would likely be the only ones she had to answer, unless I left out something relevant that a juror caught at the end of my presentation. I had done this enough times to be confident that would not happen.

Two of the young lawyers from the unit had asked to sit in as observers, and the warden leaned against the door, interested in the charges that I had submitted on the slip of paper I had filed with him earlier in the day.

"Would you tell the jurors, please, what your name is and where you live?"

"Darra Goldswit. I live in New Jersey now. I moved there from Manhattan."

"I'm going to direct your attention to March eighth," I said, giving her the date of her attack, emphasizing that it had occurred almost five years ago. There was audible murmuring among the jurors now, as they did exactly what I had reminded them was improper just moments ago. They nodded and winked at each other, puffing up with pride as the one grand jury among six that was getting to decide the front-page news.

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-seven. I turned twenty-seven earlier this month."

"Are you employed?"

"Yes. I'm the assistant to the manager of public relations at Madison Square Garden. I've worked in that office since I graduated from college six years ago." Smart, stable, responsible- qualities all summarized in a job description and title. A trial jury would get more detail, but in these bare bones presentations, this would do the trick.

"Can you tell us what you did on the evening of March eighth?"

"Certainly." I could see that her hands were trembling slightly as she kept them clasped on the table in front of her. "I was at the Garden that evening. There was a special event, a basketball game with professional athletes who were raising money for charity. I had to stay at my office until the event ended, shortly after midnight."

"Did you leave the Garden alone?"

"No, no, I didn't. My boss had a car service waiting to take him home. It picked us up on Thirty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue." She pressed her fingers tightly together. "He was tired and wanted to get home to his apartment on Park Avenue, so he asked me if it was okay to drop me at the corner of Park and Seventy-sixth Street. It was about oneA.M."

I could have started my questions at the front door of her building, but wanted this jury to hear that this victim, unlike several of the others targeted by the rapist, had not been walking from a neighborhood bar or coming from a party.

"I lived between First and Second back then, so I just walked east on Seventy-sixth Street."

"Did you talk to anyone on the way?"

"No. I didn't see a soul."

"What happened next?"

"My building's a brownstone. I climbed the six steps with my key in my hand. I stopped to unlock the door, and just as I opened it I felt this body on my back-suddenly, out of nowhere."

She paused to compose herself. "His left arm was around my neck and he was holding a really sharp object-I couldn't see it but I could feel it sticking into my neck. That was in his right hand. I-I froze. He was talking the whole time, really softly. 'Don't scream and you won't get hurt. I don't want to cut you. I just want your money.' He kept pushing me inside until he could close the door behind us."