Mike and I spent another hour going over the list of possible killers he had culled from my closed case files.

“You’ve prosecuted some sick puppies, blondie,” he mused as he shook his head over the long accumulation of names he had scrawled during the afternoon, with brief case descriptions next to each of them.

“Great cop you are. It took you ten years to reach that conclusion?”

“No, I mean, we mess with some ugly characters in Homicide. But your guys torture people who are alive and looking them right in the eye. And it takes them a lot longer to do it than a shooting or stabbing a couple of seconds in my cases and it’s all over. I never liked working sex crimes, making the victims talk about it in such detail, relive it. Seeing your screening sheets makes me remember why I hated it so much. Murder is easy you know how it happened, you just gotta figure out who did it. And you got no complaining witness to screw up your case with inconsistencies when you get to trial. C’mon. I’ll take you home so you can freshen up for lover boy.”

“You always know just what to say, Mike, don’t you?

Let’s go Jed’s not getting back tonight. He won’t be here till Saturday.“

“Whoops. Looks like you, me, and a pizza. Let’s go.”

It was almost seven when I shut down my computer, turned off the light and locked the door to my office, almost reluctantly. It seemed to be easier to stay there than to face the emptiness of my apartment for another long night.

One of my doormen held the front door open for us as Mike and I approached the building, while the other one walked toward the package room, motioning that he had something in the back for me.

“Your mail, Miss C, and some lady dropped off flowers for you,” Victor called across the lobby.

Most days my mail didn’t fit in the box and had to be held on the shelf with all the other assorted deliveries. It wasn’t a lot of personal correspondence, but I’m a magazine junkie, and the regular arrivals of news magazines, fashion books, women’s journals that I clipped for topical articles for my lectures, and things I actually read were always bundled up in rubber bands because they were too bulky for the boxes.

Victor handed me the pile and the small bouquet of tulips, then winked as he said, “My daughter showed me that picture of you in the paper today, next to that dead movie star. You looked almost as good as she did, Miss C.”

“Thanks, Victor,” I replied as the elevator door closed and Mike pushed the button for twenty.

“What an idiot can you believe there are people who think that any reason to have your picture in a tabloid is a good reason? I swear, I think if some guy showed up with the Post in his hand and told Victor he was the one who shot Isabella but he had really been looking for me, Victor would wink at him and smile and send him right up to 20B to knock on my door.”

“Not between now and Christmas he might lose a big tip if you got knocked off in the next few months.”

I opened the note that was hanging from the string around the flowers.

“Thanks for your message. This must be awful for you. See you next week Ellen Goldman.”

“That’s nice. She’s the reporter for the USA Lawyer’s Digest who’s doing the profil eon the unit and me. Very thoughtful.”

There’s no such thing as a nice reporter or a thoughtful one. Oxymoron isn’t that the word? She’s just sucking up to you for something… probably wants the exclusive on you and Isabella.“

The elevator opened on the twentieth floor and we turned left to walk to my door. There are six apartments on each floor, and as I placed the key in the lock, 20E opened up down the hallway and a large weimaraner came loping at us with her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth.

As I kneeled to pat Zac and rub her behind her ears, her owner followed behind her to greet us.

“Hi, David,” I said, rising to kiss him and accept an embrace.

“Alex, I just left a message on your machine. Why didn’t you call me during the night? I only heard about the murder this afternoon. Do you need anything, any help?”

“David, this is Mike Chapman. Mike works with me.

Mike, this is David Mitchell Dr. Mitchell’s a psychiatrist,“ I said as I made the introductions, ‘and a great friend. No, I’m okay for the moment, thanks. If you’re going to be around this weekend I’ll fill you in on the whole story.

You look like you’re on your way out for the evening.“

“After I walk the dog I’ve got a dinner date. But I won’t be too late, if you want to talk.”

“I’ve got an early appointment, David, so we’ll catch up this weekend. Have a nice evening.”

I barely had the door closed behind us and the light switched on before Mike grinned at me and asked, “Ever do him?”

“Jesus, Chapman, no!” I shouted back at him, laughing for the first time in hours.

“He’s my neighbor.”

“Well, that’s no answer. You did 31C, didn’t you?”

“It’s my own fault. Why did I ever start playing this game with you? I really asked for it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you pump me more than I’d ever have the nerve to ask you. But then, I’m a year older than you are, so I probably have a bit more experience.”

“Where did that expression start do somebody? Is it a squad term? I can’t believe I even answer you when you ask if I’ve ever had a sexual encounter with someone.

“Did you do him?” It’s disgusting, Mike I’m beginning to agree with my father that I’ve been at this job too long.“

“So who’s Dr. Mitchell? Good-looking guy didn’t he ever ask?”

“As a matter of fact, no, he never did.”

David and I had been neighbors for more than two years.

He was in his late forties, divorced, and with a thriving private practice that made him one of Manhattan’s most successful shrinks. For someone like me, convinced that psychobabble and therapy are for other people, I had an abundance of free sessions just by having cocktails with David once a week. He listened to my problems, jogged with me on the occasional mornings he could coax me off my treadmill and around the reservoir, and regularly critiqued my social companions.

“I must be losing my touch, Mike. Anyway, I’ll get the ice out. You call Steve’s Pizza it’s auto dial number four.”

“Who are the first three?”

“My parents, and each of my brothers. And they should consider themselves very fortunate to be placed above Steve’s in my list of priority numbers. When I’m on trial, Steve’s is my lifeline.”

Most of my acquaintances were pretty quick to learn that one of the things I had never managed to take time to master was cooking. I had dinner out most evenings it was usually when I spent time with friends and when I was at home by myself, I could whip up a very tasty tuna salad by opening a can of Bumble Bee and adding a dollop of mayo.

But I lived on a block surrounded by great take-out stores and delivery places: Steve’s for superb pizza, which always arrived hot; P. J.

Bernstein’s, the best deli in town when I craved a turkey sandwich; Grace’s Marketplace for elegant dinners that simply needed a five-minute microwave zap; and David’s for a moist roast chicken when I felt like being virtuous.

“What do you like on it, Coop? I can never remember.”

“Extra-thin crust, well done, no anchovies, and any combination you want. I’m just going to change help yourself to a drink. I’ll be out in a minute.”

I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

I walked over to the dressing table next to my bed and stared at the answering machine, flashing its red light in the dark. There was no one I wanted to hear from, not even my friends, because I couldn’t deal with calling anyone back right now and explaining the situation. Sitting at the table, I laid my head on my arms and let the tears slip out, debating whether to play the messages now or later.

Later. At least two Dewar’s later.