I found it at the end of the hall. The stately double doors were closed, but they opened right up when I filled my chest with air, threw back my shoulders, and-doing my best Wonder Woman impression-thrust my way inside.

(Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. What really happened was that I slowly twisted the knob on one of the doors, carefully edged it open a couple of inches, and peered through the crack. Then, when I saw a middle-aged woman with a long, skinny neck and a bun of brown hair sitting at a wooden desk in the center of a small reception area, I ventured into the room.)

The receptionist was talking on the phone, so I just stood there for a second or two, glancing around at the worn dark blue carpeting, empty wood chairs, and leather couches, feeling as nervous as a lamb in a lion’s den. I was glad that nobody else was waiting to see the DA, but-since I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to the man-I wasn’t the least bit happy that I was. Madly trying to think up a good fake reason for being there, and a stealthy but productive way to launch my investigation, I took a seat on the old brown leather couch closest to the door and lit up one of Abby’s Pall Malls.

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir!” the receptionist was saying, blushing and batting her lashes like a bobby-soxer. “I have you down on the calendar for this Friday night. Mr. Hogarth confirmed the date just this morning. He said he and his wife are looking forward to it very much. They will meet you at the Copacabana at eight o’clock sharp.”

She paused for a moment (during which time, I assumed, the other party was speaking), then she let out a girlish giggle. “Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes so fast I thought they’d fly off her face. “I couldn’t possibly do anything as bold as that!” Her scrawny cheeks looked as if they’d be hot to the touch. She giggled again and cupped her hand over her mouth, conducting the rest of her conversation in a voice so soft her words were indecipherable. When the hushed dialogue was over, she dropped the receiver back in the cradle, tucked a few loose strands of hair back in her bun, straightened the collar of her prim white blouse, and reluctantly turned her attention to me.

“May I help you?” she asked, face still flaming. “Do you have an appointment with the district attorney?

“Uh, no, I don’t,” I replied, stubbing my cigarette in a nearby ashtray and hastily rising to my feet. “I should have called for one, I know, but I was afraid he wouldn’t want to see me.”

She sat up straight as a broomstick and narrowed her eyes into menacing slits. The rosy warmth drained out of her cheeks in an instant. “And why, may I ask, do you want to see him? Please state your name and your business.” The blushing bobby-soxer had turned into the Wicked Witch of the East. (Or was it the West? I never could remember.)

“My name is Paige Turner,” I said, “and I’m a staff writer for Daring Detective magazine.” (I didn’t dare use an alias or make up a fraudulent occupation on the off chance that Sam Hogarth had seen my picture in the paper and read about my recent crime-busting exploits.) “I’m working on a story about the shockingly high new murder statistics in Manhattan,” I continued, “and I was hoping to get the DA’s personal views on the subject.” (That sounded pretty good, don’t you think?)

The woman arched one eyebrow and gave me a look that was dripping with distrust. “Paige Turner, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, stepping closer to her desk, flashing my most genuine and sincere Loretta Young smile.

She wasn’t buying it. “Humph!” she sputtered. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Well, yes, I-”

“Ha! You must think I’m a total cabbagehead!” She rose from her chair and craned her skinny neck forward. “I know a phony name when I hear one-and Paige Turner is the phoniest one I’ve ever heard!”

See what happens when you tell the truth?

“I know it sounds phony,” I hurried to explain, “but it really isn’t. My parents gave me the name Paige, and my husband gave me the name Turner, and the absurd combination has been giving me grief ever since my wedding day. Whenever I’m introduced to someone, they crack up laughing. Believe you me, if I had it to do all over again I’d marry a man named Smith. Or Jones. Or even Wartbottom. Anything but Turner!”

She scowled at me for a couple more seconds, then relaxed her witchy features into something that almost resembled a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner, but I’m sure you can understand my position. It’s my job to screen all visitors to this office and to protect the district attorney from kooks, pests, and charlatans.”

I chose not to confess that, in the eyes of some people, I belonged in all three categories.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “With a preposterous name like mine, I’m used to having my identity questioned.” I stood quietly for a second, giving us both the chance to compose ourselves, then (in deference to my shrinking lunch hour) I quickly forged ahead. “Mr. Hogarth may have heard of me, however,” I said. “My name pops up in the newspapers every once in a while. Would you please tell him that I’m here, and that I’d like to interview him for a special article I’m working on? I promise I won’t take up too much of his time.”

(I stressed the words “interview” and “article” because of their irresistible appeal to elected officials. Particularly those who were planning to run for the Senate in three years-and maybe the presidency someday.)

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” the receptionist said, sitting back down at her desk and reaching for the phone. “But don’t be surprised if he refuses to meet with you. He never sees anybody without an appointment, and he has a very important lunch date in twenty minutes.”

TWO AND A HALF MINUTES LATER I WAS SEATED in a guest chair across the desk from Manhattan’s exceptionally handsome DA, taking note of his thick, wavy, prematurely gray hair, intense blue eyes, strong jawline, broad shoulders, expensive Italian suit, and deep, resonant speaking voice.

“I’m familiar with your work, Mrs. Turner,” he said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “and I applaud your admirable courage and persistence. You’ve solved some complicated homicides in the past, and performed a great service for the city.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, caught completely off guard by his good humor and generous praise. (It isn’t often that I’m commended by a prominent public official sitting in a thronelike leather chair, flanked by an impressive wall-mounted shield and a gold eagle-topped United States of America flag stand!)

“But I’m the one who should be thanking you, Mrs. Turner,” he replied. “Your efforts have been nothing short of heroic. I think you should get a medal. The NYPD doesn’t agree with me, of course,” he added, his smile growing as bright as the midday sun pouring through his office windows.

I laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. The police think I’m nothing but a nuisance.”

“No, you’re wrong about that,” he argued. “You’re much more than a nuisance to them. You’re a profound embarrassment. You’ve outwitted them on several occasions, and they’ll never forgive you for it. They can’t handle being upstaged-especially by a woman.”

Watch out! I cautioned myself. Sam Hogarth is as smart as he is charming.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass anybody. I was just doing my job.”

“And you did it very well,” he said, suddenly dispensing with the smile, taking a pointed look at his watch, and then aiming his eyes directly into mine. “I don’t have much time, Mrs. Turner, but my secretary said you wanted to interview me for a special article. What’s the article about?”

I decided to keep it simple. “Murder,” I answered, saying nothing more, staring deep into his royal blue irises, watching for his reaction.