And the pumping, what he did for Collins and the others, drained him, which was to be expected, but the problem was, nobody was pumping him up. Zero strokes for old Butch these days. The only thing that kept him going was doing trials himself, but running a bureau with thirty lawyers in it didn't give him much time for trials, not the way he liked to do them.

He thought about his conversation with Crane. There were some strokes in that. "The best," for example. He might even have meant it. The notion of working for somebody who liked and respected him had a certain appeal. Since the death of the legendary Francis Phillip Garrahy, the district attorney who had made New York a mecca for every serious criminal prosecutor in the country, and the accession of Sanford L. Bloom, Karp had not had the pleasure. It had been eight years, all uphill.

Karp picked up the phone and punched the intercom button. Connie Trask, the bureau secretary, came on.

"Connie, what do I have Thursday?"

"Nine, you have staff with the DA, moved back from Monday. Ten-thirty, you have a meet with Sullivan at felony, his place. Lunch is open. Then, one to three, meeting of bureau chiefs on affirmative action, three to four, meeting on paperwork reduction, four to five you have marked off for grand jury. After five you're free as a bird, except it's your day to pick up the kid at day care."

"Okay, cancel the whole day. Get Roland to cover me on the grand jury, and reschedule Sullivan. The rest, get somebody to pick up any paper they hand out."

"Right. Taking a mental health day?"

"No, I'm going to Philadelphia."

"A day in Philly! Lucky you! Is this business? You want me to cut a travel voucher?"

"No, it's personal."

"What should I say if he calls. Which he will if you cut that staff meeting."