McKinney lowered his beak and actually tried to see if something was wrong.

“Ralevic’s been trying to sell patronage in Albany for years now. Probably has. He’s already starting bragging that for the right price, he can control the party’s pick in the special election to replace Ethan Leighton’s congressional seat.”

“It’s only been a little over twenty-four hours since Leighton went belly-up on the FDR Drive,” I said.

“And every couple of hours that go by represents a two-year ticket to Congress or some other vacant post, Alex.”

Paul Battaglia had won reelection term after term using the slogan “You can’t play politics with people’s lives.”

“It’s not Ralevic’s position to give, is it?”

“Not exactly, but it’s Ralevic’s style to claim he can influence the party endorsement,” Battaglia said. “It’s not like a vacant Senate seat, where the governor can choose someone to finish out the term. For the House of Representatives, Paterson has to set an election date-usually one hundred twenty days out-then each party nominates a candidate. Theoretically, the district leaders here in the city would try to control the apparatus that does that, but Ralevic’s trying to flex his muscle-and his pocketbook.”

“Not with the governor’s approval?” I asked.

“Certainly not, Alex. Paterson’s a thoroughly straight shooter, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people who would pay dearly to show on his radar screen, to try for an advantage, whether it gets them there or not.”

“So you think Leighton is in on this scheme?”

“Leighton or his old man. The father would sell his grandkids if they brought the right price. Don’t shudder, Alex. That’s why they call it hardball. Leighton’s father has always been his fixer. I’m sure he’d like a say in who succeeds Ethan. Someone who may be willing to step aside when all this is over, if his son’s name is eventually cleared.”

“If the feds have been all over Ralevic about this, Paul, what do you need from me?”

“Lem Howell would follow you if you jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge,” McKinney added.

“Oh, please, Pat. Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “And Pat? Don’t hold your breath too long, because I’m not jumping.”

“I need you in this, Alex, because I have to come out of this clean as a hound’s tooth,” Paul Battaglia said.

There had never been a whisper of a scandal surrounding the district attorney. “But you are that, Paul. I don’t understand.”

“It’s about Tim Spindlis, Alex.”

Something happened between Battaglia and Spindlis after I got out of the DA’s car last evening. There must have been a reason the chief assistant hadn’t piggybacked with me to City Hall this morning. There must have been something he told Battaglia that meant he couldn’t be in the room with us right now.

“What about Tim?” I asked.

Spindlis was in his sixties, with little to show for a thirty-eight-year career in law enforcement except an endless series of lesser decisions that Battaglia had sloughed off in his direction.

“I’d like to see him on the bench this year. I’d like to get him named to the Court of Claims. And I don’t want that designation snarled up in any monkey business or pay-for-play talk that sleazeball Ralevic brings into the picture.”

That gubernatorial appointment to the Court of Claims was an absolute plum for a lawyer under any circumstances, but for Spindlis it would cap his lackluster career and ensure that he would have job security until he reached the mandatory retirement age, as well as top-tier pension benefits.

Battaglia had been close enough to Spitzer when he was governor to make the kind of behind-the-scene deals that placed many protégés-most of whom were well-qualified-in important jobs. Scores of former prosecutors were staff for the attorney general and the governor, dozens more wore judicial robes or ran administrative agencies. There were no bribes or illegal payments ever at issue, just the traditional political back-scratching, and the all-important blessing of Paul Battaglia.

But Battaglia didn’t have that relationship with the new governor, couldn’t call in the chits that a mentor might request of the kind of protégé Eliot Spitzer had been.

“You think Ralevic and Ethan Leighton have some kind of relationship?” I asked.

I could see now why Battaglia had been in such a foul mood yesterday. He didn’t want these events to queer the deal he had made for Spindlis. And of course Pat McKinney was in on this political positioning, because he would be the likely successor to the role of chief assistant that Spindlis now held-the consigliere to Battaglia.

Something in it for almost everybody.

“The less detail you know the better, Alex.”

“I take it someone’s been wearing a wire.” I wondered if either one of them noticed that I was beginning to squirm.

“Like I said, the feds have been after Ralevic for quite a while.”

“So you’re worried where Tim comes out in all this?” I said that, although I was well aware that Battaglia never actually worried that much where anyone else came out except himself. But Tim Spindlis was too connected to him not to expect fallout close to home.

Battaglia crushed the cigar in the ashtray, like he was stomping the life out of a venomous bug. “Someone is going to try to hurt Tim in all this. Maybe Leighton himself, maybe Ralevic, or maybe even a smart mouthpiece like Lem Howell.”

I was thankful that Mike had told me to keep my limo ride with Lem and Ethan to myself. I was trying to sort out all the players and their positions.

“You listen to me on this, Alex. There’ll be no letting Chapman off the leash during your investigation-none of his antics, no one going rogue on me here. You get a whisper of anyone trying to trash my name-or Tim’s-you’re on my doorstep before you blink your eyes.”

“I understand, Paul,” I said, ignoring the smirk on McKinney’s face. “Am I off-base asking why you think Tim’s at risk in all this maneuvering?”

“Rumors. Only that. No substance to them, but he’s apt to get bitten in the ass by an ugly rumor.”

“I’d like to be prepared. Don’t you think it makes sense to tell me what it’s about? I understand it’s just garbage.”

Battaglia got up from the table and walked to the window. The gargoyles that crested the building across Hogan Place stared back at him, some with fierce expressions of defiance, others mocking him with their tongues sticking out in derision.

“Tim was Eliot Spitzer’s supervisor when Eliot was a young prosecutor here. Both Harvard Law, both bright young men interested in public service. God knows Eliot couldn’t keep up with Tim’s drinking habits, but who the hell can figure what else they did together when they bonded here?” Battaglia said.

“Both were very loyal to you, Boss,” McKinney added, trying to get his pointy nose as close to the DA’s rear end as possible.

“I’d rather not be reminded of Eliot’s connection to me at all, Pat,” Battaglia said, turning around to look at me. “Client Number Nine, Alex. You know what I mean?”

When Governor Spitzer had been identified by the feds as one of the regular customers patronizing high-priced prostitutes, he’d been cited as Client 9 in the criminal complaint.

“There aren’t many of us who missed that, Paul.”

“Whatever it is those girls were giving away at five thousand bucks an hour,” Battaglia said, pounding his forefinger into a pile of briefs that sat on his desktop, “I didn’t need every reporter in town trying to make a name for himself asking whether Tim and I knew anything about Eliot’s-well, proclivities is the nicest word I can come up with.”

“Nobody believes Eliot was involved in that mess at the time he was working here. That all came much later.”

“You and I know that. But it won’t stop the media from noting their professional relationship when Tim’s name comes up for consideration.”