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control over his followers. He recruits them from among ex-cons, the mentally ill, the terminally ill, and the filthy rich—and they think he’s God’s spokesman. They’re willing to die for him. Unfortunately, over the years, he’s had tax problems and he’s come to the notion that the government must be destroyed. By any means possible.”
    She yanked a drawer open and slammed a manila folder down onto the desktop. It was stamped COREY LYLE—CONFIDENTIAL.
    “Remember the post office bombing in White Plains two years ago? Go ahead, look.”
    Cardozo opened the folder. The photos showed twisted girders and toppled concrete and exploded bodies. His eyes flinched. He wondered, what these human beings had done to deserve such deaths. Why had they become punching bags for all the malevolent karma in the universe?
    “Okay,” he said. “Prosecute Lyle for blowing up eighty-five men, women, and children. And leave him out of the Briar case.”
    “Don’t you think we would if we could? But Corey Lyle’s M.O. is to use his followers as human bombs—even the children.” She threw another folder down. FINDINGS OF THE WHITE PLAINS SELECT COMMITTEE. CONFIDENTIAL. And another, SENATE WHITE PLAINS HEARINGS: TESTIMONY . “The accomplices die with the victims, and there’s never enough evidence to prosecute. Till now.” Cardozo pushed the folders away. “It’s a lousy idea. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a lousier idea. You haven’t got the evidence to tie Lyle into the Briar killings. And Mickey could wind up walking.”
    Tess sat regarding him with quiet, steady eyes. She swiveled to the P.C. Her fingers tapped faintly on the keyboard. A file came up on the monitor. “I see our friend Gregory Emmanuel Monteleone has a little drinking problem.”
    “He’s over that now.”
    “Does his wife know about his girlfriends?”
    Cardozo leapt up. “What the hell are you reading?” He squinted at the screen and recognized an Internal Affairs report from three years ago. “That’s privileged. How did you get it?”
    Tess’s face was suddenly blank, closed like a desk drawer. She lifted the phone and tapped in a number. “Pete Corigliano, please. Tess diAngeli calling.”
    Corigliano was the new district attorney for Manhattan, and Cardozo had read editorials calling him a one-man Spanish Inquisition when it came to weeding out corruption.
    “Pete? Tess. We’re in trouble. The Briar case. A cop over in the Twenty-second Precinct has been running unauthorized surveillance on Mickey Williams.” Her eyes came around to Cardozo. “His name is—”
    Cardozo chopped his hand down against the phone cradle, breaking the connection. “What are you trying to pull?”
    Tess smiled and replaced the receiver. “Just trying to save my career—and yours.”
    “Pick on me if you want to play dirty—but don’t use one of my men as a pawn.”
    “I’d never pick on you, Vince. I’ve read your record. But if you don’t stick to catching the bad guys, and leave the prosecuting to us—your friend Greg will be off the force without a pension. How are his three kids going to feel about that?”
    The phone rang. She snatched it up. “Tess diAngeli. Oh, hi, Pete, we got cut off. Look, forget that problem I mentioned. A detective in the twenty-second is taking care of it. Lieutenant Vince Cardozo. A great guy. I’ll introduce you sometime.”
    She hung up and gathered the photos of Mickey at the school playground. “We’ll have to burn these. You’d better give me the negatives.”
    “Tess—this is wrong.”
    “You’re right, Vince—and welcome to the real world.”

FIVE
    Last year
    Monday, September 16
    7:15 P.M.
    I T WAS A RUSH job, to score a TV movie, and Anne Bingham had less than a week to finish it. Her fingertips grazed the black and white keys of her synthesizer. Electric leads ran from the keyboard and the VCR to the P.C., waiting for her to tap in instructions.
    On the twenty-four-inch TV screen, a