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“I’m mortified. I didn’t want to see you and Mercer before I found a way to express how very grateful I am to you for—”
    â€œStop that, will you?” Vickee said. “Did it ever occur to you that I was just doing my job?”
    â€œAnd breaking every rule in the book while you did? I don’t imagine that was the case.”
    Vickee Eaton was also a detective, assigned by the police commissioner himself, Keith Scully, to the Office of the Deputy Commissioner for Public Information. Mike told me that it was Vickee who kept him one step ahead of the PC’s plans in the manhunt for the demented perps who had taken me.
    â€œHow are you, Alex?” Vickee asked, one hand on my arm as she tried to get me to square off and look at her. “Really. The truth.”
    â€œLet me give you ladies your privacy,” Stephane said, pouring wine for Vickee.
    â€œWould you please top me off?” I asked, tapping the side of my glass.
    â€œCertainly, Alexandra.”
    â€œWe’ll be four, Stephane,” I said as he headed toward the main dining room.
    â€œ
Oui, Mademoiselle.
Detective Chapman already called to reserve.”
    â€œAre you feeling any better for a few weeks on the Vineyard?” Vickee said.
    I knew the answer people wanted when they asked how you felt after an ordeal or a tragedy. The questioner meant well, whetheryou just buried a relative or had your third round of chemo or were the survivor of a sexual assault. They rarely wanted to know about the dysfunction or disarray in your life caused by the traumatic event. They wanted the short answer. They wanted, “I’m okay” or “I’m over it.”
    â€œSo much better, Vickee. I think I’m back on my feet again.”
    Her reaction would tell me whether Mike was spreading the news that I was hanging on to my marbles by a thread.
    â€œWhat did you do today, Alex?”
    She met my stare with a poker face. But that’s how good a friend she was, too. Good enough to ask me to be godmother to her son, Logan, when he was born four years ago. Good enough not to judge me by one of Mike’s reports on my condition.
    â€œVoted. Shopped for groceries. Took some things to the dry cleaner. Started to sort out one of my closets.”
    Best to leave out the hour or two I spent in a fetal position on my bed, and the uncontrollable tremors that started when my cell phone beeped with an AMBER Alert about the kidnapping of a Brooklyn toddler.
    â€œThat’s the way, Alex. Take it slow. Nobody’s expecting you to be slaying dragons in the courthouse anytime soon,” Vickee said. “The guys will be here any minute.”
    â€œMike and Mercer are together?”
    â€œYes. The commissioner figured he ought to put a Special Victims detective on the Tanya Root matter till they get a handle on how and why she died.”
    Mercer Wallace—Vickee’s husband—was one of a handful of first-grade African American detectives in the NYPD. He was a rock-solid investigator, four years older than Mike, and the person with whom I had worked more rape cases than any man in the department.
    My professional antennae stood up at attention. “Why? DoesScully think she was raped?” I said. “I’d better get someone assigned from the office to team with them.”
    â€œSlow down, girl. You’re on leave, remember?” Vickee said. “Catherine Dashfer is handing out the assignments for you. She’s on it herself.”
    No wonder I hadn’t been able to reach her yesterday. She was my trusted deputy and close pal, but I suspected she had orders from Battaglia to shut me out of the trail of information.
    â€œThere are some things I ought to tell her,” I said to Vickee. “I’ve had some ideas since I heard about this last night. Like next week’s big fashion show at the Met.”
    â€œTell Mike,” she said. “Tell