Mercer was telling the story with his hands, taking the Grange along the avenue with its nine dollies and its own braking system bolted to the steel beams. Both Mike and Donovan Baynes were riveted by the description.

“Must be a guy thing,” Nan said.

“Sorry I started it,” I said. “I just wondered if there could be any connection between Gracie Mansion and the Grange. You know, two Federal Period houses-both mansions, both country estates. Both renovated at great cost, apparently, and both connected to historical figures. That’s all I was getting at.”

“Not very likely, Alex. Gracie’s a New York City landmark, patrolled by the NYPD and used for whatever functions the mayor wants,” Mercer said. “The Grange is a national memorial. It’s a cultural resource in Harlem, I guess, for the handful of people who even know it’s there.”

“It wasn’t likely that a Ukrainian refugee and a Mexican-well, I don’t know what to call Salma anymore-would have the same tattoo. It wasn’t likely that half the legislators in this city would have phantom funds or that our congressman would have a phantom family,” I said. “This case is all about things that aren’t likely.”

“Amen,” Mercer said.

“A rose is a rose is a rose,” Mike said. “What’s so unlikely about that? It’s a very common flower.”

“There are probably twenty thousand varieties of roses in the world. Those two images are identical-in their shape, in their size, in their design, in their coloration, and in the exact same spot on each woman’s body. You saw them, Mike. Do we have Polaroids for everyone to look at?”

“Yeah, in the middle of the table.”

Catherine reached for the small pile of photographs, studied them, and then passed them on. “I’m with Alex on this.”

First Nan and then Donny Baynes agreed with me.

“Okay, okay. The Hogan Place Horticultural Club rules with the princess. Okay, I’m reading,” Mike said. “I’m concentrating on the reports.”

“Who tried to take the weight for Ethan Leighton at the scene of the accident?” Nan asked. “That’s somebody to look at.”

“It’s in the first fistful of DD-fives,” Mercer said. “I wasn’t there myself. It was his wife, Claire, who told me it was one of his aides. I didn’t work the accident. I was just brought in because of the possible domestic.”

We were all shuffling papers, literally trying to get on the same page.

“Now, this has a familiar ring to it, guys. DD-five, number eight,” Mike said. “How about that it was his former aide who tried to intercede with the highway patrol after Ethan fleet-footed himself away? How about that it was Mr. Moneybags himself, who was Ethan’s best bud before he got the congressional seat?”

Donovan Baynes read the name aloud. “Kendall Reid. So tell me why Battaglia-and the spineless wonder at his side-chose today of all days to unseal Reid’s indictment? Why’d they choose this moment to charge him, and make it impossible for you to interrogate him?”

TWENTY-TWO

The two young women from Ukraine were brought to the waiting room outside my office by federal marshals shortly before ten o’clock Friday morning. Laura tried to make them comfortable until the interpreters arrived, but their fear was palpable.

“You take the conference room, Nan. I’ll work in here.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

We had broken up around eleven P.M., and Mercer dropped me off at my apartment. I soaked all the day’s tension out of me with a steaming hot bath, and a double shot of Dewar’s as my nightcap.

“Actually, I slept pretty well.”

“No nightmares about Salma?” Nan asked.

“She was crowded out by my visions of the bodies from the ship, if you know what I mean.” It was only my friends in the office and the NYPD who themselves experienced and could understand the emotional toll the job took many days.

“Did Luc call?”

“The time zones don’t help this relationship,” I said. “He left three messages, but it was crazy for me to wake him up in the middle of the night.”

“Have you seen Battaglia?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone this morning. If he didn’t come looking for me, I figure I’m already ahead of the game. Mike’s at the autopsy, Mercer’s leading the canvass of Salma’s apartment, and I’m with you. No McKinney, no Spindlis, no bad karma, no new bodies on land or sea. So far, so good.”

“I’m cooking dinner at home tonight. We have a few neighbors coming in. Want to join us?” Nan asked.

“I’ve had a better offer. I’m going to babysit for Logan while Mercer and Vickee go to a family party. I’ll skip out early if everything stays calm.”

“Good for you. The little guy has to eat something, you know? That’s pretty hard when the sitter can’t cook.”

“All planned,” I said, standing to greet the pair of interpreters who were presenting themselves at Laura’s desk.

The Simchuk sisters appeared to be in their midthirties. They introduced themselves in lightly accented English, detailed their academic backgrounds and experience, and listened carefully as I explained why it was necessary for Nan and me to separate each of the witnesses-victims, despite whatever Donny Baynes and Mike Chapman thought of their possible involvement in criminal affairs-as we started the process of questioning them.

“I’ll take the younger girl,” I said to Nan. “Let’s see how we do.”

Ms. Simchuk invited the teenager to come into my office. The two girls looked at each other but neither one moved. Simchuk tried to coax them gently but they refused to stand up.

I knelt beside her and put my hand on her arm, but she recoiled as though I’d been about to slap her. “Tell them they’ll be safe with us,” I said. “Tell them that’s our job-to help women who’ve been hurt.”

The older one spoke softly, in Ukrainian. “If she goes with you, do I see her again?”

They had been separated from all of the others on the ship. How could they possibly know what would come next in this strange new land?

“They will be together in a very nice house tonight,” I said. “A safe house. Nan and I will take them there ourselves. They’ll be very well taken care of by the staff.”

The third time the pair of interpreters worked on their subjects, the girls released each other’s hands, embraced, and followed us as we took them in different directions. I brought the tall, slender woman into my office and drew three chairs into a small circle. The desk would impose too much formality between us.

I asked the marshal to sit behind the girl-a slip of paper told me her name was Olena-out of her range of sight, simply to be an observer, as Donny Baynes had insisted.

“My name is Alexandra. Alex to my friends. What’s your name?”

Everything took twice as long to do through an interpreter. It would take half an hour before the two of them became more or less comfortable with each other-if at all-and as long as that for me to get a sense of whether Ms. Simchuk was editing the translation, intentionally or not. Sometimes a feeling of empathy for what the subject had undergone seeped into what I hoped would be a word-for-word retelling of the facts.

“She is Olena,” Simchuk said, trying to warm the girl up with a smile. “In our language it means the light of the sun.”

I was getting the edit already. Olena had answered with only one word. The interpreter gave me more. There was no need to correct her yet, until the substance of the responses became more critical.

“Are you warm enough?”

The girl nodded but didn’t speak.

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at Simchuk out of the corner of her eye.

“Would you like a good breakfast, Olena? Some eggs and some fresh juice?”

Again she shook her head up and down. She didn’t look any happier for the suggestion that we feed her, but she clearly wanted to eat.