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him, she’s not his girlfriend.”
    We got off the elevator and headed for my office.
    “Don’t tell me you’re as gullible as his wife, Coop. All that platonic crap? ‘Beep me, darling, I’m working on a gun bust tonight with the cops. Field assignment. Midnight grand jury.’ You know anybody else in the Trial Division who gets the kind of close supervision Ellen does? One on one, behind closed doors? Trust me. Next time he gives you any trouble, I’ll run interference for you.”
    My secretary, Laura, had a smile on her face by the time we came into view, no doubt hearing Mike’s voice as we made our way down the hall together. He broke into his best Smokey Robinson imitation as she began to go through the morning’s messages with me. She sailed through the first six, all of which could be returned later, accompanied by Mike’s humming and finger snapping. When he broke out his modified lyrics — “And in case you go to court, then a lawyer is the one you want to see… but in case you want love, Laura… call on me” — I gave up the battle and went in to my desk to see what else awaited me.
    I opened the desk drawer and took three extra-strength Tylenols. The fatigue of the trial schedule on top of my usual duties supervising the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit had been wearing me down. Sarah Brenner, my close friend and second in command, had been ordered by her obstetrician to stay at home, since she was already three days overdue with her second child. I had all weekend to complete the legal memorandum the judge in the Reggie X case expected from me on Monday, so I decided to focus first on the queries from the other lawyers in the unit.
    “Who sounded more critical?” I called out to Laura.
    “If I were you, I’d get Patti down here first. Want me to call her?”
    “Yeah. Then back her up with Ryan, please.”
    Mike took off his navy blazer and hung it on the back of one of the chairs before picking up the pile of morning newspapers that had been delivered to my desk. He was looking to see whether any clever reporter had scooped him on some aspect of the Gert murder that he might have missed.
    Patti Rinaldi was one of my favorite young assistants — a solid lawyer with sound judgment and dogged courtroom style. Her enthusiasm for her work, and for resolving the plight of her victims, seemed to emanate from her when she entered my small office carrying the case file of her latest problem.
    “A vision in lavender, Ms. Rinaldi,” Chapman said, eyeing the tall, thin brunette carefully over the top of his
New York Post
. “You look ravishing today. You’re not cheating on me, are you?”
    “Cooper doesn’t leave me any time to even think about it, Mike. I worked the four-to-twelve shift on intake last night. Thought you’d want to know about this one, Alex. Have you had any cases at a sleep disorder clinic yet?”
    “Not so far.”
    “I think we got our first.”
    Mike’s interest was piqued. “What’s a sleep disorder clinic?”
    “Latest psychobabble moneymaker. Almost every medical center has one at this point. Patients who have trouble with sleep — insomniacs, sleepwalkers, snorers, you name it — come in to be ‘examined’ while they sleep. Idea is to find a cure for the problem.”
    Patti added to my description. “And they pay dearly — a thousand, fifteen hundred dollars per visit — just to spend the night on a cot and let somebody ‘watch’ them sleep, measure their dream time and the intervals between dream segments.”
    “Are there job openings?” Mike asked. “I suppose by now someone’s come up with my time-tested solution. Two cocktails, get laid, roll over, and smoke a cigarette — guaranteed to put you out for hours. Maybe I could be a consultant.”
    “Is this one of the legitimate operations, Patti?”
    “Yes, Alex. It’s affiliated with Saint Peter’s Hospital. It’s located in a large office building which houses all their clinics up on Amsterdam Avenue.