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wrangling. It’s too late at night.”
    “Okay, I agree.”
    “Edith Madison.”
    “No fucking way.”
    “You agreed.”
    Edith Madison was the Suffolk County district attorney. She once tried to put me away for murder. And even after the real guy confessed, I had firsthand knowledge that she still thought I was guilty. If not of that crime, undoubtedly some other.
    “I take it back,” I said to Jackie.
    “You can’t. The only reason the DA’s office leaves you alone is they’re too busy with easier cases. That doesn’t mean they won’t come after you like the psychotic goblins they are if you give them a reason to.”
    “What does she want?”
    “I don’t know. Consider it a good thing she called me first, your so-called lawyer. She wants us both in her office tomorrow. You’re going to do this, Sam, so let’s skip all the song and dance. Just pretend you’re a reasonable person and say okay.”
    She was right. There was no point in resisting a foregone conclusion.
    “Okay. What time?” I asked.
    “I get nervous when you give in too easily.”
    “What should I wear?” I asked. “They’d tell you if this was an arrest, right?”
    “It’s not an arrest. That’s Ross’s job.”
    “In that case, I’m thinking blue blazer. Fresh khakis. My MIT tie.”
    “That’s fine. Just leave your attitude at home,” said Jackie.
    “I’ll follow your lead.”
    “I said leave your attitude at home. My attitude’s a different story.”
    The next morning she picked me up in her Volvo station wagon. I had two buckets of coffee, as she knew I would. She once supplied cigarettes for the road trips, but we’d both given them up, regrettable but necessary. You could still notice the faint smell of tobacco in her car, which made it all the harder to repress the nasty habit.
    I compensated by telling her about my bashed-in window and conversations with Jimmy Watruss and other local luminaries.
    “The window thing bothers me,” she said.
    “Nah, it’s good,” I said, repeating what I told Watruss. “Much better they know I’m on their ass. Helps shake them loose.”
    “Why do you say ‘they’?”
    “There were no wheelchair tracks leading up to the breakwater on Hawk’s Pond. Alfie was carried. That means at least two people.”
    “So you like being bait?” she asked.
    “Time is of the essence,” I said. “You know that. Every day that goes by it gets harder to piece these things together. People leave town, evidence disappears, memories fade, cops get waylaid by other crimes. Since we don’t know who these people are, we can’t go to them. They have to come to us.”
    “Glad you said ‘us.’ I wouldn’t want to feel left out.”
    “Just keep that Glock loaded and within reach.”
    T HE DA’s office was in Hauppauge, a town toward the western end of Suffolk County. I’d been there before, under more explicitly lousy circumstances, so I couldn’t say it was a pleasant homecoming. The security guys at the front desk had me empty my pockets. They also made the mistake of asking Jackie to dump out her duffel bag of a purse.
    “Jesus Christ, lady,” one of them said, “did you leave anything at home?”
    “The name’s Attorney Swaitkowski, bub. Close associate of DA Madison.”
    “You don’t think she needs that stapler and solar-powered battery charger?” I asked.
    Since neither of us had anything more lethal than my Swiss Army knife, which they retained, we got through. We were met on the third floor by an administrative civil servant wearing the requisite dour expression and frumpy clothes. A standard that failed to extend to the upper echelons, as demonstrated by Oksana Quan, the assistant district attorney and the DA’s right arm, who picked up our procession along the way.
    “Very nice to see you again,” she said, shaking our hands. “Edith will join us in a few minutes.”
    I doubted she was glad to see us, though in a way, I was glad to see her. While there was no better