"That's not true." Cheryl was stung. Maybe she'd had a Vicodin or two for the pain. But she was up practically all night thinking about her daughter, she was sure of it. "That's a lie, you know I never take pills," she said.

"Oh, come on, you were so fucking wasted you wouldn't know if an atom bomb hit."

"Jesus Christ! How dare you talk to me like that! I'm your loving mother. Don't you forget that," Cheryl exploded. "Look at your clothes. They're disgusting. What do you do, spend your time in a sewer? I know what you were up to, you little slut! You weren't with your father any more than I was."

"Well, at least I can see him any time I want. He hates you so much he wouldn't see you if you were dying of cancer."

Cheryl's breath made a noise that was meant to be a growl but came out like a sob. The pain of it all got her voice going. "I'm going to give him a little call about this. Look at your clothes. I've never seen anything so disgusting in my life. If this is his idea of parenting, I have a little surprise for him."

Brandy was out of her bed like a shot. She was wearing a pair of her father's boxer shorts and a T-shirt. "Don't touch my stuff," she cried. She looked horrible. Dark circles around her eyes. The pudgy teenager's body from hell. Cheryl freaked just looking at her. Brandy was a spawn of the devil, protecting a pile of filthy clothes and dirty sneakers. This child was never going to be a debutante, never going to be pretty, never going to turn out to be anything at all. She was hanging out in the park, God only knew what she was doing. Cheryl didn't know how she was unlucky enough to have an impossible kid like this.

"I'm your mother. I will touch your stuff," she screamed. "It's my job to see that you're taken care of. And I will not have you turn out a slut and a nothing. You little bitch! What are you hiding, pot?"

"Oh, come off it, you and that creepy friend of yours smoke pot all the time. So does Dad."

"Dad smokes pot? Are you crazy?" Cheryl was shocked, and screamed some more. Her ex-husband was an absolute uptight and boring square, a Republican, who never thought about anything but business and had ridiculous views about everything. They'd had no fun at all for years, and he'd never once smoked pot with her. Not once. She couldn't believe it.

"He's got a cookie jar full of it, smokes it all the time," Brandy said.

Cheryl's eyes popped. "I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you if you smoke that pot with your father. I'll put him away. You're a nothing. You're going to be a Goddamn good-for-nothing, just like him. And watch me. I'll send him to jail. I will."

Brandy whined, "I feel bad. Mommy, get me some coffee. I'll go to school. I'll clean up. I'll do it, okay."

"You better do it." Cheryl softened immediately, thinking she'd order out for the coffee. "What kind do you want? Cappuccino? Mochaccino?"

"Look, don't hassle Dad. I was just mad at you for giving me grief all the time. I lied about the pot."

"You lied about the pot?" Cheryl said, suddenly sorry that she'd exploded like that. She always overreacted.

"You know I don't do that stuff." Brandy stood there guarding her filthy clothes. "I'll take care of this, okay?"

"I'll get that coffee for you, but hurry up." Cheryl didn't ask her daughter why her clothes were such a mess. Kids were hell, everybody knew that.

"I'd like a Danish, too," Brandy said.

Cheryl went into the bedroom for a robe and to call the deli. While she was dialing, Brandy ran out into the back hall and dropped her clothes and shoes down the garbage chute. They went down with a satisfying whoosh and disappeared forever.

Thirty-eight

John Zumech was six feet tall with a medium build, no discernible fat on his body, long legs, and a salt-and-pepper crew cut of the kind that had been reviled since the Vietnam War by those not in the armed services but was recently making a comeback. He had a nose that had seen too much fighting action, a thin mouth with a small scar in the shape of a C that curved down toward his chin from one corner, a cleft in his chin, stormy gray eyes that were not exactly challenging but took a person on with full intensity. Women liked him. And even if he had not been wearing the orange SAR vest, no one would mistake him for anything but a military man.

As promised, he was waiting inside the park where April and Woody had responded to a call for help on Tuesday night. He was wearing hiking boots and was playing with a flat leather leash. His red Jeep Cherokee, as always in such situations, was packed with search and rescue equipment. He'd parked it on the grass. Because the day had already warmed to a hot Indian summer eighty-two degrees in Central Park, the windows were all partially open. The huge head with sharp pointed ears of the Doberman pinscher called Peachy was stuck out a back window, and she whined like a frustrated child.

As Mike and April pulled up alongside the Jeep, the dog's whine got louder. Mike cut the engine quickly. The dog flung herself at the door as if there were a chance she could propel herself through it. The vehicle shook with her efforts. Her agitated moans made an eerie sound and raised the hairs on the back of April's neck. She glanced at Mike. If he was on edge, he didn't show it.

John slapped the leash against his palm and immediately started complaining to April. "The two of you stink. You know, perfume like that will knock a dog's whiffer out for hours."

April greeted him through the open passenger window. "Hi, John, thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant Mike Sanchez. He's in charge." She didn't bother to apologize about the smell. Hers was just soap and Mike had no idea this was coming down today.

John plopped a Yankees cap on his head and leaned down to window level. "Hey, Mike. This isn't going to work. Look at that-dogs, people. Cars. Buses." He straightened up and pointed out the people lying out on the grass, walking on the paths, the traffic over the wall on CPW. The area hadn't been cleared as he'd requested. He looked disgusted. He leaned back in and raved on.

"A, April here promised a different scenario, and B, Peachy is the best dog in the world, but she couldn't do anything with this even if you'd cleared the area as promised. I knew this was a mistake. Not only that, you guys aren't playing by the rules. I stopped over at the CP Precinct. Courtesy thing. The CO over there had no idea we were working here today. What's up with you?" This last he directed to April.

Mike confirmed John's reading of the situation by giving his neck a little exercise, making a manly connection to John that April read perfectly. Oh my God, she thought. Mike had no actual intention of supporting her operation. Peachy was pacing the backseat of the Jeep now, as well as whining. Mike got out of the Camaro, hiking at his belt. He was going to abort on her.

April unhooked her own seat belt, but stayed where she was to watch the scene play out. John was understandably upset. It was against procedure to work in any precinct without full knowledge and support of the CO there. In addition, John had a bit of a chip on his shoulder because so many people, including the PC, had no faith in the dogs. He hated to be made a fool of. And this was pretty bad. Not only that, John hated the prospect of Peachy's failing at a task no animal could possibly be expected to fulfill.

Mike's agenda, on the other hand, was not entirely clear to April yet. His smile was in place, but that was all. Unlike other cops April knew, Mike had a smoothness about him; the man could calm an erupting volcano. Since he'd become a lieutenant last spring, Mike's leadership qualities had a new authority. He was the man in charge, the Alpha male here. He still hadn't told her what his position on the case was or where he was going with it. But he was acting like a boss. That meant he didn't care if he made an enemy of John, and even April herself had to be careful. Like any PD boss, he could turn on her and crush her like a bug. She'd seen it happen a thousand times with the dumb uniforms who thought they could get away with having boyfriends on the job. The only one happy with the situation was the dog. Peachy bayed and scratched at the door, desperate to work.