“Yes, Paul?”

“I need ten minutes of your time,” Battaglia said. “The mayor’s looking for where I stand on that legislative proposal we discussed.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I finish an argument I’ve got in front of Judge Moffett.”

“I need you right now, Alexandra. I’m already late for City Hall. I don’t expect you to keep the mayor waiting.”

FOUR

Rose Malone, Battaglia’s executive assistant and my trusted friend, waved me into his suite without buzzing the intercom. Her lack of a cheerful greeting let me know that the district attorney hadn’t started the day in a good mood.

“Do I have a position on this Halloween business, Alexandra?” Battaglia had called me in to discuss a legislative proposal about sex offenders that had become a controversial piece of the city council’s agenda. He started walking from his desk to the large conference table at the rear end of his office as soon as he saw me cross the threshold. “Did I make up my mind about what we’re going to say?”

“Not as of the last time we discussed it.”

“Sit down,” he said, his teeth gripping the long unlit cigar in the middle of his mouth. “What is it, just a few weeks until Halloween?”

“Yes.”

“I guess the mayor is trying to grandstand here. Show that his balls are bigger than mine. What’s he up to?”

“I read the proposal. Half a dozen states and a lot of local authorities have been trying to place restrictions on registered sex offenders for just that one night a year,” I said. “Some communities are requiring them to attend four-or five-hour educational programs on Halloween. In Virginia, they’ve all got to report to their parole officers between four and eight p.m., so they’re not at home to answer the door when kids come trick-or-treating. That’s the model the mayor wants to adopt in the city.”

“What do I think of it?” Battaglia asked. He was the consummate politician and had enough confidence in his senior staff to let us participate in important decisions, even though he had a long memory for mistakes.

“Pretty useless.”

He lifted his glasses off his nose and rested them on top of his forehead. “Sexual predators are one of the major concerns in law enforcement. You’ve got a holiday here that offers a tantalizing chance for these perverts to have unsupervised contact with kids. The youngsters knock on the door, ask for some candy, and God knows what can happen to them.”

“It’s one night a year, boss. If the legislature puts some teeth in the laws we’ve already got, then maybe the police could actually monitor the offenders they’re supposed to be tracking.”

Battaglia rarely removed the cigar when he spoke, just stretching the corners of his mouth around it without slurring any of his words. “And the advocate groups? Where do they come down on this?”

“Not impressed. Most children are victimized by people they know and trust, not by strangers. This draft doesn’t even distinguish between pedophiles and perps who committed crimes against adults. You won’t get any heat from victims’ groups if you don’t support the proposal. Press for enough money to track the registered offenders 24/7. That’s where the real problem is.”

Battaglia got up and removed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. That would serve as a dismissal. I stood up to leave the room.

“How about the flip side?” he asked.

“What would that be?”

“Well, that Halloween presents another danger for kids. Offenders could be dressed in costumes, too. Abducting teens or children from the street, or knocking on doors in some kind of disguise.”

“I’ll tell you, Paul, we haven’t seen any problems on Halloween over the years. Late October hasn’t been high season for sex crimes.”

“You’re not hanging me out to dry in front of the press, Alex, are you?”

I assumed Battaglia was joking, and I laughed as I started for the door. “I wouldn’t think of doing that until my pension vests, Paul.”

“I’m not kidding. I smell a setup over at City Hall.”

I turned to face him, and he removed the cigar from his mouth. “This brouhaha last night, Alex. Some guy broke into a girl’s apartment dressed up like a fireman, right?” he said. “How come you didn’t call me about it?”

“Well, there isn’t actually a case, Paul,” I said. His displeasure was visible in his scowl. I had irked him by neglecting to inform him about a matter that I’d miscalculated in importance, but which must have a link to a player in his political world.

“Somebody at City Hall seems to think otherwise. It’s all to do with disguises and assaults, isn’t it?”

“I wish I could tell you what happened, but the victim hasn’t been cooperative with us.”

“Get on it, Alex. Bring her in. Find out what this is about.”

It hadn’t occurred to me while I pleaded with her in the drab hallway outside her basement sublet the night before that Tina Barr had any high-powered clout. I wanted to know who had gotten to Battaglia on her behalf-or on the part of her mysterious assailant, which worried me more.

“You know something about Ms. Barr that I should be aware of?” I asked.

He put his glasses back on and started to read a memo that was on the table. It was an easy way to ignore my question. Either Battaglia had been leaked a tidbit and was looking for me to give him more information, or something so sensitive was involved that he wasn’t willing to disclose it.

I tried again. “Is it the victim you’re interested in, Paul, or is it the perp?”

“As long as I’m the district attorney, Alexandra, I’ll ask the questions,” Battaglia said. “You get me the girl.”

FIVE

Mike and I zigzagged our way through the hapless gaggle of criminals-some arguing with their public defenders, others waiting with family members or friends-who filled the fifteenth-floor corridor of the criminal courthouse.

“Somebody’s got Battaglia wound up about Barr, or knows something about her attacker,” I said.

“So when we finish here, I’ll drive you to her apartment.”

“I just called Mercer. He’ll meet us there, too.”

He pulled on the large brass handle of the door in the middle of the hallway, holding it back so that we both could enter Part 53 of the Supreme Court of New York County, Criminal Term.

Harlan Moffett was on the bench, his back to the courtroom, seemingly engrossed in the New York Law Journal. Mattie Prinzer, the first woman to head the OCME crime lab, was seated alone in the front row. Only the staff was present-no spectators-and a well-dressed man who appeared to be younger than I, sitting at the defense table, the one farther from the empty jury box.

The court clerk saw us enter and signaled to the reporter, then got the judge’s attention. “We have the prosecutor, Your Honor. Shall we bring the prisoner in?”

Moffett spun in his chair and folded the newspaper. “Good to see you, Ms. Cooper. Detective, thanks for making yourself available on such short notice. Say hello to your adversary, here. What’s your name again, son?”

“Eli Fine.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to shake mine after I entered the well and dropped my files on the table.

“You have a chance to meet your client yet?” Moffett was in his seventies, close to mandatory retirement. His once-thick white hair had thinned and faded to a dull gray, but the garnet pinky ring he sported still sparkled as he twisted it while he talked.

“I spent a couple of hours with him at Rikers yesterday, after I flew in.”

“Let’s have Jamal Griggs,” the judge said, motioning to the court officer in charge. “How long you been out of school, Eli?”

“Six years, sir.”

“I’ve been a judge for more than thirty.” Moffett had been around long enough to know most of the New York bar that practiced in this forum. The courthouse regulars were used to his schmoozing and put up with his clumsy attempts at humor in hopes he would rule in their favor. The judge didn’t bother to clean up his act for strangers.