A Time of Trials

Inspector Ernest Cohen had thought he was taking the day off, but a call from no less than the Chief of Detectives had changed that. Now he was waiting for the Harbor Patrol to send a boat and get him across the Hudson River. Driving was out of the question; the huge fire near the United Nations had backed up traffic to all the bridges and tunnels leading into the Borough of Manhattan. He looked at his watch. It was about a quarter of eight. The Inspector was old enough to think of time in half- and quarter-hours. The fire and the crime behind it were about two hours in the past now. He'd been trying to get to the scene for an hour and a half now. He'd been waiting for the police boat for half an hour. All these were approximations, but that's how Ernie Cohen thought of time unless he was forced to think of it more precisely.

His phone chirped. He checked caller ID: It was Gianelli, the Chief of Detectives. "Cohen here."

"You in the borough yet?"

"No, I'm still waiting for the Harbor Patrol. Do you have anything more for me, or did you just call to kvetch?"

"Yes, I have an order for you: Go to Bellevue."

"The Psychiatric Ward so I can visit your relatives?"

"No, that's where they took the surviving vics. You won't do any good at the scene now. I want you with the vics. Your kid's there, isn't she?"

"She is. She's in surgery, that's all they'll tell me. My esteemed son-in-law too. I thought they'd be on Roosevelt Island."

"They're at Bellevue. Ask for Castillo and Johansson."

"They're Doctors Now?"

"I wish. I got a feeling about this one, Ernie. It's going to be a real ball-buster."

"Worse than Satamuk?"

"Could be . . . Hey, I got word from Harbor the ETA for your boat is five minutes."

"Well, there's some good news. Can I keep Jorge and the Swede?"

"For now. I've got the mayor on one line and the Times on another. Go forth and do good."

Inspector Cohen tried to reach the two detectives, and tried to reach his daughter, and tried to reach his son-in-law, a resident at Bellevue. He had no luck with any of them. A fairly large, somewhat worn-looking boat had come up the the pier by then, and a fairly good-looking young woman got off it and started offering rides to the commuters waiting at the water taxi tie-up. "And you, sir?" she asked Cohen with a touch of a French accent.

"No thanks, I got a ride coming," he said. He didn't say he was a cop. That would have been awkward; there was exactly one authorized water taxi service for New York Harbor. He added, out of curiosity, "How much, in case they don't show?"

"I would say fifty dollars would be a fair price fornbsp; you."

"A fair price for you, maybe."

"We might not be back here, and our boat is filling quickly. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

The old boat pulled out just before the Harbor Police launch arrived—closer to a quarter of an hour later than the five minutes promised. Inspector Cohen read the sternboard: Neptune's Daughters, New York. "Do you know that boat?" he asked the two obscenely young cops manning the launch.  One responded, "We've seen it. You want us to bust them?"

"No. I just wondered if you knew the girls." He'd spotted a second young woman aboard, obviously a watermaid of some experience. He tried making calls again, and this time he actually got through to Detective Johansson. "Swede? This is Cohen. Inspector Cohen, in case you forgot."

"Inspector," Johansson acknowledged.

"What have you got from the victims? Anything?"

"One's dead. One's still in surgery. I'm with the third one. She just come out, she's not talking yet."

"Did the dead one say anything?"

"Not to us. One of the EMT's said he said something like ‘He shot the little girl, and then he shot me.'"

"Something like that?"

"The EMT says he was talking French and something he didn't know. The EMT's Haitian. Anyway, that's what the EMT says this guy said. He had an ID on him. The dead guy, I mean."

"Who was he?"

"Patrice Montagne, from Ivory Coast. Clean record here. He worked at delicatessen on that block, ‘Gretchky's Kosher Delicatessen and Restaurant.'"

 "He came a long way to die, didn't he?" Inspector Cohen noted down the factoid. "Anyone else from that place called us?"

"Not that I know about."

"Where's Castillo?"

"He's waiting outside the operating room where they're working on the other girl."

"Good."

The launch had passed the southernmost tip of Manhattan and was moving north along the eastern shoreline when Inspector Cohen's phone tag caught someone else. "Hey, Minnie. What's going on there?" His son-in-law's name was "Minoru" and Cohen couldn't resist the chance to hang the obvious nickname on him, even if he'd wanted to.

Dr. Takahata didn't respond with his usual counter-wisecrack. "Hello, Dad. They put you on the case?"

"If you mean the people who got shot by the UN, yes. Do you know anything about the victims?"

"One's still in surgery—Judy's working with Dr. Schoen and Dr. Mangul. The guy coded before he got to surgery."

"Montagne?"

"Was that his name?" Dr. Takahata yawned loud enough for his father-in-law to notice. "Excuse me, Dad, I've been on since eight yesterday morning."

"The fire keeping you busy?"

"Actually no, it's a pretty normal load now. But the guy who was relieving me is still stuck in traffic. Anyway, I worked on the older girl after the guy coded on me. Don't expect a lot from her."

"How bad is she hurt?"

"She took a large-caliber bullet in her head. Missed the brain, but it had to do kinetic damage. The guy must have put the gun right up to the side of her head; there's powder burns."

"Did you recover the bullet?"

"No. It went through. Maybe we'll get one from the younger girl, or the dead guy . . . Dad, I hope you get this one."

"I hope so too."

By Inspector Cohen's internal clock, about a quarter of an hour later he was looking at the victim Dr. Takahata had worked on. Takahata was there, but Sergeant Castillo had traded off with Detective Johansson. Castillo had a bullet inside an evidence bag which he handed to Inspector Cohen. "Cop killer. Pointed tip to punch through armor, and feel how heavy. Expensive. This is not what I would use to hold up a deli. One clip of these would probably cost more than the take."

"Yes, but not all crooks are as smart as you, Jorge."

"I'm thinking this looks more like a hit. A block from the UN, the shooter could be waiting for a regular with bodyguards."

"Could be, could be," said the Inspector as diplomatically as he could manage. In his estimation, Jorge was a very good detective, but his imagination was maybe a little too good. "But why shoot two little girls?"

"Same reason the waiter probably got it. They saw the shooter. Wrong place, wrong f__in' time. Anyway, this bad boy isn't deformed much. If we can find the f__in' gun, we'll get a match."

"If we find the gun," said Inspector Cohen. "Well, with fifty thousand cops looking for it, we just might. Looks like a 44, 45 to me."

"Bet it's a fifty. Too heavy for a 44 or a—"

Cohen's phone chirped. He silenced Castillo with a gesture. Caller ID showed that "It's Reuben Fine."

"The lawyer? What's he calling you about?"

Attaching an earbud and handing to Castillo, he said, "Let's find out, why don't we." He took the call. "Rube?"

"Inspector, I wonder, if you could do me a favor."

"Well, after what you did for us with the Satamuk mess, I guess I could consider it. What's your problem?"

"Do you have any information on the Godolfin family? They operate Gretchky's Delicatessen. It's on the block where the fire is burning."

"Why do you want to know?" asked the Inspector.

"I'm with Anastasia Godolfin, the daughter. We can't get through on any of the regular lines. Is there any word on what happened to them?"

"If she's with you, put her on."

A woman began speaking. She had a very slight accent and a lower voice than most, suggesting that she might be tall. "I am Anastasia Godolfin. Can you tell me anything about my family?"

"I don't know where they are, but if I get information, I'll make sure you are informed. Right now you can help me by answering some questions. When did you see them last?"

"I haven't seen them since yesterday's morning. I talked to my mother over the phone shortly before midnight."

"We have a man here named Patrice Montagne. Records say he was working for your family. Was he still employed by them?"

"Yes. Can I speak with him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Is he all right? The news says there may have been shootings."

The lawyer would be listening in like Castillo, of course; even if he wasn't, he was probably recording the call, like Cohen; even if he wasn't recording, the woman would probably tell him everything said.

"I'm at Bellevue Hospital, Ms. Godolphin. We've got two other people here we haven't identified. I'm with one of them now. She's a girl, maybe twelve, sort of pink-blond hair. Maybe she was a regular customer?"

The woman hesitated to answer; she said something to the lawyer he couldn't make out, and the lawyer said something else he couldn't make out. Then the woman asked him: "Are her eyes sort of red-brown?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? How can you not know?"

"I don't know. Who do you think she might be?"

"She might be Sarah Uer, U-E-R. She comes to our place every time she's in New York."

"She's not from New York?"

"You don't recognize her name? Sarah is Usagi Chiba's daughter."

"You mean the friend of—?"

Dr. Takahata stepped up to Inspector Cohen. "Let me talk to her."

Ernest Cohen thought about it for a second, but his son-in-law was all in Doctor mode now. "I'm going to put Dr. Takahata on. He's been treating her." He took the earbud from Castillo as he handed the phone to his son-in-law. "I'm Minoru Takahata, I'm a resident surgeon here. My patient is 73 centimeters, about four-ten. Her hair is reddish or pinkish blond. It was very long; we had to cut off most of it. She has nails painted pink, very bright. Can you give me a name? She might respond to her name. She's been unconscious since she got here."

"Sarah Uer, U-E-R. I gave the name to the Inspector."

Dr.Takahata hit a page button above the girl's bed, and returned the phone to Inspector Cohen. The doctor bent low to speak gently near the girl's ear: "Sarah. Sarah? If you're awake, speak up. Try to stay awake. Sarah?" And so on.

Meantime Inspector Cohen asked Anastasia Godolfin another question: "The stats on your place say you've been robbed five times in the last four years. What did your family do about that?"

"We didn't buy guns. We have insurance, of course, and we use a security service. Manhattan Security and Surveillance Services. They gave us big stickers we put up everywhere. They put in more cameras, some of them hidden."

"Not much is going to be left of those cameras, I'm afraid."

"That won't matter. The video is stored with them. They haven't contacted you?"

"No. Do you have their number?"

A nurse had answered the page, and Dr. Takahata ordered her to make a priority phone call to Usagi Chiba. "The Queen's friend?" she exclaimed. "Yes, the famous one. This could be her child. Tell the charge nurse, no one else. Have them patch me in when they get Ms. Chiba." The nurse left quickly, and Dr. Takahata returned to trying to rouse "Sarah," if that was really her name.

Godolfin didn't know the number of the security company. "I must have seen it on the stickers hundreds of times, but I can't remember it now to save my life."

"Fortunately you don't need it to save your life. This could be a big help, if they've got the video. Anyone been—" He was going to ask if anyone had been hanging around, but the little girl finally responded to Dr. Takahata. "I'll call back. The girl is awake now."

The girl's first words sounded like: "Me, me, me, me."

"Sarah? Is your name Sarah?" asked the doctor.

"Hai. Yes. Me me."

Sergeant Castillo said, "You've been shot. Do you know who shot you?"

The girl said slowly, not loudly, but clearly, "Michael Ennis Grandville. Me, me."

"Michael Ennis Grandville shot you?" asked the sergeant.

"Was him. Mimi, little girl, blond hair, amber eyes, with me . . . " The girl rose up and trembled, and then collapsed back on her bed.

"Sarah? Don't go to sleep, please," said Dr. Takahata. "Please, Sarah." But he couldn't seem to rouse her. "I don't have enough pull to get you out of here, but Dr. Menzel does. You shouldn't have hit her with the questioning like that."

"The sergeant was doing his job, Minoru. Sergeant, get to a secure terminal and run this Grandville character. Name ring any bells for you?"

"No. Lotta thugs, though. Even I don't know them all." Sergeant Castillo left.

"Mind if I call Ms. Chiba myself?" His son-in-law ignored him, still trying to get the girl to rouse again. Amazingly, he did. The girl said, "Hard to talk. Call mom. " The girl recited a number, not a local area code.

"I'll see if I can get through," said Cohen, who had already punched it in. "Hello?"

"Helro?"

"I'm Inspector Ernest Cohen of the New York Police Department. Are you Sarah's mother?"

"Hai! Yes! Is she in trouble?"

"I'm in Bellevue Hospital now. She's been hurt. Sarah, I have your mom. Here . . . talk now." He was using the earbud, and recording, of course. He understood little of what was said, though, because they both spoke Japanese. The girl said Dr Takahata was there, and the mother spoke with his son-in-law. Then the call ended. "What did she say?" Cohen asked.

"I didn't get all of it, but she says she's coming right over."

"Is she the real thing?"

"She sure sounds like the famous one. To me."

<<She is the famous one,>> said the little girl. But she didn't speak it—the words sounded inside Cohen's head. Inside his son-in-law's too, from the way he jumped. <<Too hard to talk,>> sounded in their minds. <<I know Grandville shot me. There were others with guns. I didn't know them, but he did.>>

 "Are you an alien?" asked Dr. Takahata.

<<No. It's more that some of the aliens are like me. This is a big secret. Very big.>>

"I believe you," said Inspector Cohen, never a man to stay shocked for long. "So, how do you know Mr. Grandville knew the other guys with guns? You read his mind?"

<<Yes. Sorry, he shot me before I could pick out much. About all I got was his name and that he was scared.>>

"Why was he scared?"

<<I can link two-ways. Sometimes I do it without meaning to. He saw into me. And he knew I knew who he was.>>

"So he shot you because you could recognize him?"

<<He was scared because he thought I would kill him.>>

"You could kill him? Were you armed?"

<<I don't need to be armed. Michael Grandville killed a friend of Mom's eight years ago. He was twelve. We thought he was still in prison.>>

"Do you think he came after you or your mother?"

<<No. He was waiting for some black guy. Nice clothes, kind of fat . . . whoever it was, he was supposed to make Michael very rich. I was a complete surprise to him, too.>>

"So he had no idea you'd be coming. Who knew you were going to the deli?"

<<Maia, I think. She was half-asleep when I told her, though.>>

"Who is Maia?"

<<Maia Umino. She likes herring, like Mom, especially now. I went to Gretchky's to get her some. Didn't tell Mom. I should have.>>

"Yes, she should have." That voice came from behind Inspector Cohen and Dr. Takahata, from the half of the room that didn't have a bed yet. That half of the room was now filled with assorted angels.

<<Mom told you guys she was coming right away. Get a wheelchair for Mom. She's in a lot of pain when she's in this form.>>

Dr. Takahata rushed out, perhaps to get that wheelchair. Once again, Ernie Cohen recovered his wits quickly. He didn't recognize the mother at first: she was the most spectacular, with very large black wings with a blaze of colors near the shoulders. Her silver-white hair was divided into two impossibly-long ponytails which floated and twisted like the long tentacles of a squid, caressing her daughter even as she scolded her in rapid Japanese.  But one was easy to recognize: Queen Kakyû, the leader of the refugees from the planet Kinmoku, a quarter-turn or so around the galaxy from Earth. The Queen exchanged rapid Japanese with the mother and the eyeless girl on the bed, and barked orders to others. The cast of the room changed; some left; some arrived. It was very crowded. Cohen had just identified "Maia" who proved to be a very pregnant girl when two more things happened more or less at the same time. First, Sergeant Castillo elbowed into the crowd and said "What is this, a costume party??" And Cohen's phone chirped, and caller ID showed it was the Chief on the line—not Gianelli but the chief Chief, Wrexler, the "new broom" brought in from Denver after the Satamuk mess mandated the latest "comprehensive reform" of the NYPD. Cohen clamped one hand over Castillo's mouth and took the call with the other.

"Inspector Cohen? I just heard from Sergeant Castillo that one of our victims is might be a VIP."

"That's affirmative. Her mother and one of her mother's friends are here with me right now. Did the sergeant tell you about our possible suspect?"

"Yes, he told me he's a parolee with a homicide."

"Wonderful. He hasn't told me any of that yet."

"Don't resent the sergeant's actions. I contacted him."

"Did you now?" That was a bit much, Cohen realized. "I'll give you a full report when things are a little clearer." He ended the call.

 "If you give me the bullet, I can find the gun," said a girl. Cohen found she was an angel with a long-bladed spear. "How can you do that? And by the way, who are you, if I may ask?"

"Why, Sailor Earth, now." She had a rather low, husky voice, though she was clearly still an adolescent. "I can find anything on Earth with a good enough connection."

"Does that mean you can find Mr. Grandville too?"

"I know where he is now." She pointed with her spear. "That way. Harlem or the Bronx, right? I can get him right now if you like."

"Thanks, but you're not a police officer, are you?"

"No."

"Maybe we could use your help later. And maybe you should put down that big pig-sticker," said Cohen.

"It's easier for me to find things with it."

Maia, the pregnant one, said, "Sarah says you should let Earth-san have the bullet."

"Let her have the bullet," said the silver-haired angel, with more than her voice. Inspector Cohen handed the evidence bag to the spear-wielder before he could think of what he was doing. Sailor Earth folded one hand around the bullet, leaving it inside the bag, and pointed with her spear again. "The gun is that way." It was a different direction. "Sergeant, want to come with me? You're light enough for me to carry, I think."

"We're flying?" asked the Sergeant.

"No, we're taking the direct route!" She grabbed the diminutive cop, and they both vanished.

A few minutes before Sailor Earth took Detective Sergeant Ernest Castillo to find the gun matching the first bullet taken from Mimete "Mimi" Han, two other NYPD officers in a patrol car in Harlem stopped a car. They would later testify that they had seen the car emerge from an alley without stopping, a "clear traffic safety violation." The driver of the vehicle and others would make differing claims.

The stop took place three blocks from the apartment building where Michael Ennis Grandville had been living with his mother since his release on parole in early February.

"You're smelling nice now, Jorge," said Inspector Cohen, taking the bagged weapon.

"It was in a dumpster on 66^th Street," said Castillo. "I guess we're lucky it wasn't in the East River."

"I would have found it there, too," said Sailor Earth, changing back into her "civilian" garb, which proved to be an oversized sweatshirt with many stains and nothing else, at least showing. But one of the doctors who'd come hadn't seen a "bishôjo Senshi" before, and his mouth fell open and stayed open.

"I don't suppose you could deliver it to the lab?" said Cohen.

"We could, but that would let even more people know what we are."

That was Lord Seiya talking. Cohen hadn't recognized him in senshi form, though he was extremely well-known in New York. One reason was that he was a she in senshi form. Inspector Cohen would have liked to ask many questions on what that implied, but despite all the weirdness, Cohen was incapable of being distracted for long from the fact of the crime. He said, "That's a good point. And it's also a good point, I think, that if you Kinmoku people get involved in this, it could be harder to convict this man."

The Kinmoku queen, who didn't have the flowing command of English that Lord Seiya did, said, "Our law is different. And Sarah-hime is protected by our law."

In the back of his mind, Inspector Cohen remembered that "-hime" meant "Princess." But it could just be an affectionate term . . . "My job is to enforce our law. I guess you could try to extradite him or something, but I really don't think that would be—"

His son-in-law interrupted him as he burst into the room. "I just caught Ashton Sakurada on News Two. Someone leaked that you're looking for Grandville."

"As you can see now from the air," said Ashton Sakurada, "Harlem North of 125^th Street is in the streets. Cars have been moved, sometimes by their owners and sometimes simply picked up by the crowds to block access. For those of you who may not have been following this story until now, the protest began when officers attempted to arrest an African American man after what the police describe as a traffic safety stop. This occurred on 131^st Street about two hours ago, and at about the same time word was spreading in the area that the police were looking to arrest another young African American in connection with the fire and shootings near the UN complex. Police have since confirmed they are seeking 20-year-old Michael Ennis Grandville for, quote, ‘questioning,' unquote, in connection with the incidents. Mr. Grandville lives on 134^th Street and in fact in the same block where New York police and DEA agents shot Buba Satamuk to death last year."

A portrait appeared beside Ashton Sakurada on the outfeed video. "NewTwo has attorney Walter Poteet on the phone now. Mr. Poteet, are you there?"

"Yes, Ms. Sakurada."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at 127^th Street now."

"Are you in contact with Michael Grandville?"

"No. I'm on my way to meet Mr. Grandville's mother."

"Mr. Poteet, there is a lot of speculation that the police are under pressure to find a culprit quickly here. Would you care to comment?"

"I would imagine they are. I can see the smoke from the fire from here."

The Grandville boy had come bursting out of the toilet screaming incoherently. It took the combined efforts of his mother and a half-dozen of her girlfriends to get him calmed down and clean up the mess he made inside the toilet and along the trail he'd made from it.

Walter Poteet was using the toilet now. It was a relief in more than one way, and he was tempted to stay for awhile, away from the sad spectacle. But his phone nagged him into breaking his short, blessed isolation. It was his office. "Mr. Poteet?" asked Ms. Norbett. Of course, it would be him, but Ms. Norbett was always a woman of propriety.

"Yes, Ms. Norbett?"

"I have Mr. Gervaise St. Vincent on another line. Do you want to speak with him now?"

"St. Vincent," Poteet mused. Gervaise St. Vincent was quite famous, but he worked mostly in his native Louisiana and in California, and usually for rich clients. "I'll speak with him, yes."

St. Vincent's distinctive voice said, "The circumstances of this case have excited my interest. I would like to offer my services on behalf of the unfortunate Mr. Grandville."

"That's very generous, Mr. St. Vincent, but I am afraid you will have to work pro bono if you take on this case. Mr. Grandville's pockets are quite shallow, I'm afraid."

"I have surmised this already. 134^th Street is not, I gather, an upscale neighborhood. Given that I understand the lack of depth in the Grandville pockets and am still anxious to help, may we work together?"

"I think we may." The boy was going to need a magician, and Walter Poteet had been able to pull few rabbits from hats during his career.

"Thank you so much. I have secured transportation most of the way to the Grandville residence. I think I shall be there within the hour." St. Vincent explained the details.

While cleaning up and deciding how to tell Mrs. Grandville (and the boy, if he had somehow become reachable) Walter Poteet noticed something peeking from under a mat. It was a ragged-edge leaf, perhaps from a rose. When he tried to pick it up, it gave him a small cut, and he lost it.

Reuben Fine checked his phone and saw that the call was from his son. After informing Anastasia and signaling her to be quiet he answered. "Mike?"

"Yes, it's me, Dad."

"Where are you?" There was quite a lot of background noise.

"I'm at the airport in Newark."

"Are you traveling with Reverend Swainson?"

"Yes, I am. Dad, you must have heard about the police looking for a man named Michael Grandville."

"I have. What about it?"

"His mother is a New Gospel Church member. She's asked for help, and the Reverend has decided to give it. He asked me if you would take part in his defense."

"So, he wants to have me, too. Well, I think between you and Walt Poteet, Mr. Grandville will get at least as much defense as he deserves."

"So you won't consider it?" His son was surprised. "Excuse me, but this seems like your kind of case. Why not?"

"I have a personal connection with the family of one of the victims, Michael."

"Personal connection?"

"Let me talk to him," asked Anastasia.

"All right. Michael, Ms. Godolfin would like to talk to you." He surrendered his phone, and left the kitchen for a few minutes. When he returned, Anastasia was finished with the call and attacking the eggs Tatiana had cooked up almost an hour ago. Retrieving his phone, he asked, "Anything I should know about?"

"You mean, am I running back into Michael's open arms? No. He did not seem very interested in me, as me."

"Has he talked with Grandville yet?"

"He didn't say. He has spoken with his mother and your friend Mr. Poteet. I think he might know Ms. Chiba's daughter is involved, but I didn't ask. He seems to want to defend this bastard."

He almost said, "He might not be the one." But he thought better of it. Instead, he said, "Maybe Inspector Cohen can tell us something" and called the savvy old cop. But Cohen wasn't picking up.

Chief Wrexler found Inspector Cohen waiting in a small conference room at Bellevue Hospital. Also waiting was Adam Shipwright, the Manhattan District Attorney. "I thought you were in Hawaii," said the Chief.

"I was," said Shipright. The D.A. was shaken. That was new to Wrexler; he'd seemed as tough as his reputations in all her previous encounters with the man.

The Special Agent in Charge for the New York office (or SAIC, in FBI-speak) was a smooth professional named Boardman, but his eyes seemed a bit glassy this day. He simply nodded to the Chief, not at all the pleasant bureaucrat of before.

There was one other person present, an Army colonel with a green beret tucked under one epaulet, who took a form and a pen from his attaché case, put them before Chief Wrexler, and said, "Before anything else, please sign this."

"I'm not in the Army any more, Colonel," said Wrexler.

The colonel came back instantly, in a voice that had no overt threat: "If you don't sign this agreement, I am authorized to end the participation of the New York Police Department in this matter immediately. Please reconsider."

Sharon Wrexler looked over the agreement. It was a promise not to reveal classified information. She decided to sign after all. "There. Now can I get back to work."

The colonel took the paper and countersigned it. "Congratulations. You now have a higher clearance than most of the President's cabinet. Your mayor and police commission are not cleared; keep that in mind later." The colonel put away the agreement and used his phone. He didn't use English.

Chief Wrexler wanted to speak with her Inspector alone, but with the SAIC and the DA there, the two of them were the NYPD, and the Department had better present a united front. Instead of asking Cohen what the hell was going on, Sharon Wrexler asked, "Where are Sergeant Castillo and his partner?"

"Interviewing a witness down at 17^th Precinct. It's a homeless guy who says he saw our boy Mikey after the shooting. So far his story looks pretty good."

A gangling adolescent girl opened the door. Her startlingly deep blue eyes caught the Chief's for a moment. She held the door as three women entered. One was Ms. Chiba, in a hospital wheelchair, Wrexler noticed. One was the Queen of the alien refugees, Kakyû. The third was the President of the United States, and she was followed very closely by two very fit-looking men in suits.

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