Judging Time

Praise for the novels of Leslie Glass . . .

'This series [is] a winner.' —Mystery News

'Detective Woo is the next generation descended from Ed McBain's 87th Precinct.' —Hartford Courant

'I'll drop what I'm doing to read Leslie Glass anytime.' —Nevada Barr

'Fast-paced, gritty ... [April Woo] joins Kinsey Millhone and Kay Scarpetta in the ranks of female crime fighters.' —Library Journal More praise .

'An intense thriller ... Glass provides several surprises, characters motivated by a lively cast of inner demons and, above all, a world where much is not as it initially seems.' —Publishers Weekly

'Deft plotting and strong characterization will leave readers eager for further installments.' — Library Journal

'Glass not only draws the reader into the crazed

and gruesome world of the killer, but also cleverly develops the character of Woo . . . and her growing attraction for partner Sanchez.' —Orlando Sentinel

'If you're a Thomas Harris fan anxiously awaiting the next installment of the 'Hannibal the Cannibal' series and looking for a new thriller to devour, you'll find it in Burning Time' —Ft. Lauderdale Sun- Sentinel

'A suspenseful story in which those who appear to be sane may actually harbor the darkest secrets of all.'— Mostly Murder

'Sharp as a scalpel. ... Scary as hell. Leslie Glass is Lady McBain.'—New York Times bestselling author Michael Palmer

LESLIE CLASS

JUDGING TIME

A SIGNET BOOK

SIGNET

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.

First Signet Printing, February 1999 10 9 8 7

Copyright©Leslie Glass, 1998

For my mother, Elinor Gordon, whose passion was justice

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First I want to thank all the good people at NYPD who risk their lives around the clock to make New York City a safe place to visit and to live. My goal with this, as with all my books, was to create characters in realistic situations, who are true to life but do not resemble any real people in the precincts and other agencies I describe. This is a work of fiction.

I want to thank former commanding officer of Mid-town North, Inspector Diane Prizutti, for letting me visit, and commanding officer of the 30th Precinct, Inspector Jane Perlov, for letting me sit at her desk, metaphorically speaking. Thanks to Pam Delaney and all my friends at the Police Foundation, who do so much to help in so many ways. Thanks to the good people at New York University School of Law—Jim Jacobs, Steve Zeidman, Debra LaMorte, and of course, Dean John Sexton, who educated me relentlessly. Thanks to the Glass Institute Fellows and Dr. Wilma Bucci for dedication above and beyond. Thanks to Dr. Richard C. Friedman for the vital help in psychology that makes such a difference, and to my favorite cousin, Dr. Deborah Loeft, who brought me the murder weapon from Chicago and taught me how to kill.

Thanks to my agent, Nancy Yost, for deliverance and to Dutton Signet for everything else, especially good judgment and other editorial excellences, by Audrey LaFehr, and leadership, by Elaine Koster.

Last, kudos in order of their appearance to Edmund, Alex, Lindsey, and Peanut, my very best friends this and every year.

We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it—and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove lid. She will never sit down on a hot stove lid again—and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one any more.

—Mark Twain

Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar

1

At fifteen minutes after midnight on January sixth, when Merrill Liberty took a phone call at her table in Liberty's Restaurant, she had thirty minutes to live.

'It's the boss.' Patrice, the cocoa-colored maitre d' from Haiti, smiled and handed her a mobile phone.

Merrill tensed and made a face before reaching for the phone. 'Where are you?' she asked in a low voice.

'Just got in.' Her husband's voice sounded as strained as hers.

She nodded at her companion—he's back—then leaned forward in her wicker chair with its high fan back. 'What took so long, Rick?'

'Hey, don't start, baby. Haven't you noticed it stinks out there? My flight was canceled. I just squeaked in on another airline. I'm lucky to be here tonight at all.'

'Same old story.' Merrill's voice, so often sweet and silky in her TV roles, took on its less famous offstage sulk. 'You didn't have to go,' she muttered.

Frederick Douglass Liberty—known as Liberty in his football days—sighed his martyr sigh. 'You know I had to go.'

'No, I don't.' Merrill glanced at Tor, who was shaking his head at her, smiling and pouring himself the last of the wine.

'Say I said hello,' Tor murmured.

Merrill ignored him.

He shrugged.

'If the weather was so damned bad why risk your life?' Merrill demanded.

'For you, baby. I risked it for you.'

'How's your head?'

'The head's all right, but I'm exhausted. How was your evening?'

Once again Merrill fixed her deep green eyes on Tor. He was sipping wine and smiling. 'First rate.'

'Time to come home, then.'

Merrill drummed her fingers on the table. 'You've been away all day. You in any particular hurry now?'

'Fine. Patrice said you just got your dessert, enjoy it.'

His voice had taken on the bitter edge she hated, so she gave him a lighthearted laugh. 'Nothing's secret here, I see.'

'You better believe it.'

Suddenly Merrill smiled at Tor. The lusty way he'd begun attacking almost at the same moment both her spiced apple cobbler and his fried bananas with crunchy toasted coconut was characteristic of his approach to life.