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“Why don’t you convince her that other people have the situation under control?”
    â€œI’m trying to do that, Mike,” Vickee said.
    â€œShe’s got this messianic complex, like the world will really come to a stop if she isn’t solving sex crimes twenty-four/seven.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. Tomorrow is manicure and pedicure, then haircut and color. Relaxed enough for you, Detective Chapman?” I doubted that I could sit still long enough to be pampered, but I so desperately wanted to give it a try.
    â€œSounds perfect to me,” Vickee said.
    â€œSparkling water all around,” Mike said to the bartender.
    â€œDon’t do that on my behalf,” I said. “Not-drinking, I mean. I’m off the scotch.”
    â€œWhy would you think that’s the reason, kid? Mercer and I have worked up a real thirst today. Might be that something we stirred up by snooping around will have us going back at it later on.”
    That was pure bullshit. Mike could throw down vodka all night and, with a few cups of espresso, be back on the job with no sign of overimbibing. Besides, nothing was going to heat up on Tanya Root’s case tonight.
    â€œProgress?” Vickee asked.
    â€œNothing to speak of,” Mercer said.
    â€œAnyone come up with something helpful on Tanya Root?” I had already perked up at the prospect of talking about a real investigation.
    â€œNot yet,” Mike said. “There should be a sketch ready to go public by tomorrow or Thursday.”
    â€œNo missing persons?”
    â€œAlways. Calls galore, but nothing that fits,” Mike said.
    â€œThe model angle?” I asked.
    â€œMore likely a hooker. Model wannabe,” he said, turning to the bartender. “You mind switching on that TV, m’man?”
    The bartender picked up the remote and clicked the power on. The small set was hung in the corner, above the rows of bottles of aged liquors that had such rich color and, I imagined, soothing taste.
    Mike took the remote from the bartender and began searching for
Jeopardy!
. He had an unerring sense of timing and had rarely missed the last question of the show, whether at a crime scene or the Medical Examiner’s Office or a dinner with friends. For as long as I could remember, Mike and Mercer and I had bet on Final Jeopardy!, passing twenty-dollar bills back and forth throughout any given week as though they were Monopoly money.
    â€œWere there any signs of sexual assault on the vic’s body?”I asked Mercer as Mike found the channel and upped the volume.
    â€œDidn’t Mike tell you there wasn’t much of anything left for the ME to study?”
    â€œWell, how about the interior vaginal vault?”
    â€œMs. Root was in the water for days,” Mercer said. “Sort of washed out any evidence there might have been.”
    â€œHow stupid of me. I should have known that,” I said.
    â€œSaved me from insulting you, Coop. Right on the money. Stupid it is,” Mike said. “Now, pay close attention.”
    Trebek revealed the giant blue board with the category: MAJOR LEAGU E BASEBALL.
    I groaned. Things were definitely not going my way.
    â€œPut your money on the bar, kid,” Mike said. “One twenty for us, and another for the bartender, who seems to think you’re the glass-half-full, not half-empty, kind of person.”
    â€œYou know as much about baseball as we do,” Mercer said.
    â€œYankees,” I said, pulling the money from my tote. “Just Yankees.”
    â€œThe Final Jeopardy! answer is: HE IS TH E ONLY PLAYER TO WIN THE AMERICAN LEAGUE BATTING TITLE WITHOU T HITTING A HOME RUN .”
    The timer ticked on while the three contestants seemed as baffled as I was.
    â€œChild’s play,” Mike said. “Okay if we go to our table?”
    â€œI’ll send the Pellegrino over,” the bartender said.
    â€œAnd my Chardonnay,