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felony punishable by up to seven years in prison.”
    Holy shit. I’m in awe of Burke. Sort of.
    The girl slips the first card she removed from her purse back into it and hands over a second. It reads: LAURA DELARICO, 21 ARDSLEY ROAD, SCARSDALE, NEW YORK.
    “What do you do for a living, Miss Delarico?” I ask.
    “I’m a law student. That’s the truth. I go to Fordham. Here’s my student ID.” She holds up a third plastic identity card.
    “Do you work?” I ask. “Perhaps part-time?”
    “Sometimes I babysit. I do computer filing for one of the professors.”
    “Look, Miss Delarico,” I say, raising my voice now. “This is serious business. Very serious. Detective Burke was being genuine when she said you have nothing to worry about. But that only happens if you help us out. So far, not good. Not good at all.”
    Laura looks away, then back at me.
    “We know that you work for a prostitution ring,” I continue. “A group that trades in high-priced call girls. We know it’s controlled by a Russian gang.”
    Laura begins to cry. “But I’m a law student. Really.”
    “A few days ago a female detective posing as a call girl was murdered. Somebody who meant a lot to me. We need your help.”
    I pause. Not for dramatic effect but because I feel myself choking up, too.
    Laura stops crying long enough to say, “It’s just something I’m doing for a little while. For the money. I live with my grandfather, and law school costs so much. If he ever found out…”
    A few seconds pass.
    Then K. Burke says, “Off the record.”
    K. Burke is staring deep into Laura’s eyes. But Laura is frozen. No response.
    “Let me show you something,” I say.
    Laura looks suspicious. K. Burke looks confused. I reach into my side pocket. Next to my ID, next to the place where I kept the cash for Carl the doorman, are two small photographs. I take them out. One shows Maria Martinez on the police department’s Hudson River boat ride. I took that picture. The other shows Maria Martinez dead. It was taken by the coroner.
    I show Laura the photos. Then she looks away.
    Finally, she says, “Okay.”

Chapter 17
    Prostitutes don’t keep traditional hours.
    Laura Delarico tells us that she’s “on call” at Fitzgerald’s for another thirty minutes. She’s certain she’ll be free by late afternoon. “Even if I do get a client,” she says, “I’ll be in and out quickly.” (No, I don’t think she was trying to be funny.)
    I suggest that Laura, K. Burke, and I meet at Balthazar, where a person can get a decent steak frites and a pleasant glass of house Burgundy. “This will put everyone at ease,” I say.
    K. Burke suggests that we schedule an interview at the precinct this evening. “This is an investigation, Moncrief, not happy hour. Plus, I’m going to that meeting with Vice.”
    Because proper police procedure always trumps a good idea, at six o’clock the three of us are sitting in an interrogation room at the precinct.
    Laura is surprisingly interested in the surroundings. The bile-colored green walls, the battered folding chairs, the crushed empty cans of Diet Coke on the table. I don’t think I’m wrong in thinking that Laura is also interested in me.
    “So this is, like, where you bring murderers, drug dealers, and…okay, prostitutes?”
    “Sometimes,” I say. “But today is strictly informal, off the record. No recordings, no cameras, but as much of the cold tan sludge my colleagues call coffee as you can drink.”
    Laura is wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and a gold necklace with the name Laura on it. She could be a barista at Starbucks or a salesgirl at the Gap or, yes, a law student.
    “We’re very glad that you agreed to try to help us,” K. Burke begins.
    Laura interrupts: “Listen. I don’t think I want to do this anymore. I think I’ve changed my mind.”
    “That would not be a good idea,” I say. My goal is not to sound threatening, merely disappointed.
    “We’re counting on you,” K.