The prosecutor listened to the bizarre turn the case had taken. Most of the perps he put away were stupid Tony Soprano sorts or even more stupid crackheads and punks. He seemed amused to find himself with a brilliant criminal—whose crimes, as it turned out, were not nearly as serious as it seemed. What excited him far more than a serial killer was the career-making prosecution of a deadly corruption scam in the police department.

“Any of this going through IAD?” he asked Sachs.

“No. I’ve been running it myself.”

“Who cleared that?”

“Flaherty.”

“The inspector? Running Op Div?”

“Right.”

He began asking questions and jotting notes. After doing so, in precise handwriting, for five minutes he paused. “Okay, we’ve got B and E, criminal trespass . . . but no burglary.”

Burglary is breaking and entering for the purpose of committing a felony, like larceny or murder. Duncan had no purpose other than trespassing.

The prosecutor continued. “Theft of human remains—”

“Borrowing. I never intended to keep the corpse,” Duncan reminded him.

“Well, it’s up to Westchester to decide that one. But here we’ve also got obstruction of justice, interference with police procedures—”

Duncan frowned. “Though you could say that since there were no murders in the first place, the police procedures weren’t necessary, so interference with them is moot.”

Rhyme chuckled.

The assistant district attorney, however, ignored the comment. “Possession of a firearm—”

“Barrel was plugged,” Duncan countered. “It was inoperable.”

“What about the stolen motor vehicles? Where’d they come from?”

Duncan explained about Baker’s theft from the police impound lot in Queens. He nodded to the pile of his personal effects, which included a set of car keys. “The Buick’s parked up the street. On Thirty-first. Baker got it from the same place as the SUV.”

“How’d you take delivery of the cars? Anybody else involved?”

“Baker and I went together to pick them up. They were parked in a restaurant lot. Baker knew some of the people there, he said.”

“You get their names?”

“No.”

“What was the restaurant?”

“Some Greek diner. I don’t remember the name. We took the four-ninety-five to get out there. I don’t remember the exit but we were only on the freeway for about ten minutes after we got out of the Midtown Tunnel and turned left at the exit.”

“North,” Sellitto said. “We’ll have somebody check it out. Maybe Baker’s been dealing in confiscated wheels too.”

The prosecutor shook his head. “I hope you understand the consequences of this. Not just the crimes—you’ll have civil fines for the diversion of emergency vehicles and city employees. I’m talking tens, hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“I have no problem with that. I checked the laws and sentencing guidelines before I started this. I decided the risk of a prison sentence was worth exposing Baker. But I wouldn’t have done this if there was any chance somebody innocent would get hurt.”

“You still put people at risk,” Sellitto muttered. “Pulaski was attacked in the parking garage where you left the SUV. He could’ve been killed.”