“You could try celibacy,” Søren suggested, and Kingsley flicked a tongue depressor at him.

“Unnatural,” Kingsley said. “No one should be celibate.”

“I agree,” Dr. Sutton said, and winked at Søren.

Dr. Sutton promised to call as soon as the results were in. He and Søren walked out into the sunshine.

“She’s your doctor, too, yes?” Kingsley asked.

“She is.”

“And she goes to your church?”

“She does.”

“And she doesn’t believe priests should have to be celibate?”

“Now you know why she’s my doctor.” Søren grinned. The smile faded, and he put his hand on Kingsley’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

“Two weeks. I’m going to die while waiting to find out if I’m going to die.”

“You don’t have my permission to die.”

“I’ll never make it. What do people who don’t have sex do with their time? Other than plan their suicide?”

“I don’t have sex. Do I seem suicidal to you?”

“What do you do in your free time?”

“I’ll show you. Meet me at Central Park on the North Meadow at three.”

“Don’t you have a job?” Kingsley demanded.

“I said morning Mass at ten. I took the rest of the day off for you. Come to the park. Wear clothes you can run in.”

“I don’t want to run.”

“North Meadow. Three.”

Søren held up three fingers.

In response, Kingsley held up one finger.

Once Søren was gone, Kingsley stopped at a pay phone and called Sam.

“You paged me?” he asked as soon as Sam picked up his office phone.

“You have messages. Most important message—Blaise wants you to escort her to some fund-raiser Friday night.”

“Do I have to?” Kingsley asked.

“If you don’t take her, I will,” Sam said with an amorous tone in her voice.

“I’ll take Blaise to the thing. You’re not allowed to steal my chouchou.”

“We need to renegotiate my terms of service, then.”

“What else?” Kingsley asked.

“An Officer Cooper called. He’s at the twenty-sixth precinct. I don’t know what this message means, but he said ‘Tell King I’ve got a live one for him.’”

Ahh...that sounded promising.

“I’ll go right now,” he said.

“What’s a live one? Who’s a live one?”

“I told you we needed professionals—dominatrixes, dominants, submissives. I have some contacts keeping an eye out for me for anyone who might fit in well at the club.”

“A beat cop is one of your contacts?”

“Cooper puts the beat in beat cop.”

He hung up on Sam and hailed a cab. He was almost as fond of police stations as he was fond of doctor’s offices. He’d already been to the doctor today, so he might as well go play with the police, too. If today continued along this trajectory, he’d be attending Mass by nightfall.

All of this was Søren’s fault—getting sober, getting an assistant, getting tested, working. Fucking priest. He was so glad he’d come back to him, Kingsley could barely breathe thinking about it.

Officer Cooper, twenty-five, black, tall, muscular and handsome, met Kingsley in the lobby. He didn’t speak a word until they were halfway to the holding cells.

“Who is she?” Kingsley asked.

“Name’s Irina Harris, born Irina Zhirov. Age, twenty-two.”

“A Russian, eh?”

“Came to the States as an eighteen-year-old mail-order bride,” Officer Cooper said. Kingsley laughed. “I’m serious, King. We see it a lot. Russian women so desperate to get out of the country they marry American men, total strangers most of the time. They hook up through matchmaking agencies. Sometimes it works out and they live happily ever after. Sometimes the lovely bride tries to poison his dinner.”

“She poisoned her husband?”

“That’s the charge.”

“You brought me down here to meet a murderess?”

“Attempted murderess. I don’t know. You know what I like,” Officer Cooper said. “And I like her. I get that feeling about her. Want to meet her?”

“A Russian mail-order who tried to kill her husband? Of course I want to meet her.”

This day was looking up.

“I don’t have any excuse for bringing you down here, so if anyone asks, lie and say you’re her translator or something.”

“Da,” he said in Russian. “Моё судно на воздушной подушке полно угрей.”

“Whatever you say,” Cooper said, nodding. “And you’ve got ten minutes before I have to get you back out again. Good luck.”

Kingsley slapped Cooper on the arm. They’d met at a party, and Cooper claimed he was such a good submissive, he could pick out a dominatrix in a lineup of five other women simply by listening to her voice. “It takes a sub to know a domme,” he’d said. Now they would find out if he was right.

A woman sat alone in a cell on a gray metal bench. She had her back to the door and didn’t turn around when Cooper let Kingsley in the cell.

Cooper left them alone together.

From the back he could see she had black hair, stylishly coiffed, and she wore designer clothes. He walked around to stand in front of her and found her staring into the corner of the room, refusing to make eye contact.