Entombed by Linda Fairstein

isn't exactly a
halfway house, Giuliano," Mike said. Local politicians, celebrities,
sports stars, and well-to-do New Yorkers sat elbow to elbow at the
tables that were turned over three times a night. "The cheapest scotch
you serve is eight bucks a pop, so who were these guys? You hear their
conversation, Fenton?"
    "Some of it. The guy
who put the first bill down, I think he was French. He did most of the
talking. Sounded like they had all come from a party together and just
dropped in here before they split."
    "Was there only one
black guy in the group?"
    "Yup."
    "He talk a lot?"
    "Drank mostly. Don't
remember him saying much."
    Mike looked at me.
"You and Mercer got room for me on the task force? If you can arrange
for me to have this post-just park me here at Primola's bar-I can help
keep the city safe."
    "That's a deal. This
one's a real long shot, Giuliano. Just promise me you'll call
nine-one-one if you think you see this guy again."
    "You're not
convinced?" Mike asked. "You're the one who spent the better part of a
year going to every community meeting and school association, if I
recall correctly, telling people in this very neighborhood that the
Silk Stocking Rapist lived or worked right among them."
    What a thankless
assignment that had been for Mercer and me. Some rapists were
opportunists who attacked whenever the moment presented itself, whether
the prey was fifteen or seventy-five years old. If she was in the wrong
place at the right time for the perp, and she was vulnerable, he
struck. This one was different. He targeted a physical type-most were
tall, slim young women, in their twenties-and so far he had never
deviated from his profile. Week after week we'd respond to requests to
talk to citizens groups about the Silk Stocking Rapist's pattern and
the risks posed in his targeted residential community. Rarely did any
women under the age of sixty show up to listen to us, and the seniors
who came could have passed our suspect on the street without his
thinking twice about committing a crime.
    "Look at the man in
your corner deli," I used to tell everybody, "the dishwasher in the
restaurant on your block whose shift ends at one A.M. , right before the attacks started.
Your doorman, the super down the street, the guy next to you on the
subway platform."
    "So why couldn't he
show up in your favorite restaurant, Coop?"
    "It's certainly in the
zone. So next time, Giuliano, make sure you get the glass he was
drinking from before it goes in the dishwasher. A little saliva for his
DNA is all we need. C'mon, Mike. I'm whipped."
    He drove me the short
distance to my apartment and waited until one of the doormen let me
inside and walked me to the elevator.
    I flipped on the
lights and stopped to hang up my coat and scarf in the hall closet. I
picked up the pile of mail that my housekeeper had left on the credenza
and carried it into my bedroom. There was no flashing light on my
answering machine, one more sign of my newly unattached lifestyle.
Somehow, wherever in the world Jake Tyler had been on assignment, he
left loving messages for me that cheered me when I returned at whatever
ungodly hour from a day too full of violence and heartbreak.
    I clicked on the
television and listened to the local all-news channel as I undressed,
washed up, and crawled into bed. After reports of a suspicious breach
of security at a nuclear power plant upstate and a car accident in
Times Square that killed three tourists, the commentator replayed the
police commissioner's seven o'clock statement.
    Mercer was behind the
commissioner's shoulder as he announced that the Manhattan Special
Victims Squad had identified a sexual assault pattern within the
confines of the Nineteenth Precinct on the Upper East Side. Reporters
at the foot of the podium furiously scribbled details of the cases,
holding Xeroxed copies of the sketch that was posted on an easel next
to Mercer.
    "This is Manhattan SVS
pattern number three of the new year," he said.
    "How'd