hen McCord strode into his office at precisely nine-forty-five, his mood did not appear to be much improved. He nodded curtly at the three detectives seated in front of his desk. "We're going to have some uninvited guests," he began; then he stopped as the Special Frauds Squad auditor—a balding, sweating man in his forties—walked into the office, juggling a tall stack of large manila envelopes.

"What did you find out?" McCord asked as the man looked around for a place to unload the items. He unwisely chose to dump them on McCord's desk, but McCord was too intent on hearing what he had to say to notice.

"Several things," the auditor replied. "First, your dead guy was spending more than he was making. Second, he either had an incompetent CPA, or else he was seared shitless of being audited because there's a lot of deductions he really should have tried to claim and didn't. Third, his spending habits changed a couple of years ago. Fourth," the auditor finished, his eyebrows levitating with irrepressible glee, "he's got a platinum credit card from an offshore bank!"

"Could you amplify the first item a little," McCord snapped impatiently.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," the startled man said. "I mean that, until a couple years ago, Manning was doing extremely well—several of his commercial projects paid off big time for him, and he was also making a shitload of money in the stock market. The market started to slide at about the same time his business turned stagnant, but he went ahead and moved his offices to a new location anyway. The rent on the space he moved his offices into is staggering, but Manning didn't seem to care. He then plowed over a million bucks into gutting, redesigning, and redecorating the place."

He paused to open a manila envelope on the top of the pile; then he extracted a written report and glanced at it as if to confirm what he was about to say. "At that point, Manning began running his architectural firm as if it were some sort of 'hobby' that didn't need to make a profit. It was costing him a lot to keep the doors open, and he was definitely spending more than he was taking in. Now, here's what makes all that so interesting…"

He peered silently at his audience to emphasize the magnitude of his next announcement. "Until a couple years ago, Manning was a big earner and a conservative spender. Suddenly, the reverse was true. He started spending money like he had an unlimited supply of it. His spending habits changed, and that's what I look for! "

Sam was about to ask why having a credit card from an offshore bank was significant, but Womack spared her the need and the auditor answered the question.

"Let's say you've got a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash that you obtained illegally," the auditor proposed. "If you go to any U.S. bank and deposit more than ten thousand dollars in cash, the bank is obligated to report your name and social security number to the IRS. But you can't risk any inquiries from the IRS about how you came by the cash money, which leaves you very few choices: You can bury it in the backyard and spend it a hundred dollars at a time, or you can take it to a legitimate bank in any country with laws that don't require their banks to report to our tax authorities. Banks in Nassau, the Caymans, and Belize have been very popular for that purpose."

He looked around at his audience, realized he wasn't yet telling them anything they didn't already know, but he forged ahead, his enthusiasm mounting. "Now you've got the money in a nice safe offshore bank earning interest, but you can't spend it here, because you can't write a check on a foreign bank to buy much of anything in the U.S. But, " he said significantly, "if your offshore bank issues you a platinum credit card with a high limit, or no limit, you can use it to buy virtually anything you want here. Logan Manning," he finished triumphantly, "bought two luxury cars in two years on his credit card, and then he sold them a couple weeks later, took the check he was given, and deposited that into a regular bank account.

"It's money laundering with a 'cute' twist. The only problem is the IRS just announced they're going to start auditing taxpayers with credit cards from offshore banks, so Manning will show up on their radar screen."

"Did you find any irregularities in Leigh Manning's finances?"

"No, but Broadway stars don't make nearly as much as I thought. Under her contract with Solomon, she gets twelve thousand dollars a week or five percent of whatever the box office takes in, whichever is greater. Based on my calculations, Blind Spot is taking in about five hundred thousand dollars a week at the box office, which means Leigh Manning should actually earn about twenty-five thousand a week, or one point three million per year. I checked with an agent over at William Morris, and he said those figures are about average for a Broadway star in a nonmusical role, although he thought the five percent was a little low for someone like Leigh Manning. Now, if she had an established Hollywood name, then her percentage of the box office would be bigger."

Everyone was silent for several moments, processing the unexpected discovery that a socially prominent, "upright citizen" like Manning had evidently been getting his hands on illegal cash somewhere. How he had been doing this was a whole new question, and whom he had been doing it with was just as interesting. Valente, with his unsavory history of money-related indictments and charges, was the first known associate of Manning's to come to Sam's mind. McCord was clearly thinking along those lines, because the next question he asked the auditor was, "Did you turn up any business connection anywhere between Manning and Valente?"

"Not a one," he declared. "But I turned up something else that may be of even more interest to you. In fact, I may have saved the best discovery for last. You gave me some miscellaneous documents and correspondence of Manning's that you wanted me to look into, along with your notes on each subject."

"Right," McCord said when the auditor paused.

"Everything checked out, except one thing: According to your notes, Manning invested two hundred thousand dollars in Solomon's play. The file you gave me contains duly executed agreements between Manning and Solomon that indicate two hundred thousand dollars did, in fact, change hands. But you know what I can't find?"

McCord nodded slowly and emphatically, his lips drawing into a hard line. "You can't find a check for two hundred thousand."

"You guessed it. Manning must have given Solomon cash in exchange for a share in the play's profits."

"And," McCord finished for him, "Solomon undoubtedly takes in plenty of cash at the box office during the run of a play, so Solomon would be able to take Manning's cash and deposit it into his own bank without raising an eyebrow at the IRS."

The auditor nodded. "My guess is that, knowingly or unknowingly, Solomon laundered two hundred thousand dollars for Manning."

McCord looked at Sam, his brows raised in a silent question. You were there when we interviewed Solomon. What do you think?

After a moment's contemplation, Sam answered him aloud. "I suppose it's possible. On the surface, Solomon is a brilliant, talented… flake, but there's more to him than that. He got pretty tough with you when he realized we were thinking of Leigh Manning as a suspect."

"He's no flake. He has enough business acumen to produce the plays he writes, line up his own backers, and maintain control over the production. According to what I've heard, that's not the norm."

Absently, Sam ran her hand around her nape, thinking; then she shook her head. "Solomon fancies himself a renegade, and I doubt he'd have a moral dilemma about laundering a little money for a friend, but at the same time, I don't know if he'd do anything for anyone that would put him in jeopardy of going to prison."

Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, McCord looked at Shrader and Womack. "You've already run a background check on Solomon, but now I want all three of you to start compiling complete files on him and his lover. Don't stop until you can tell me their life stories with all the details, right down to which one of them wears the pajama bottoms, and which one wears the top."

A prolonged silence followed the auditor's departure while all four of them automatically focused on the new, pressing question about the source of Manning's cash.

McCord walked around his desk and sat down across from her. Sam lost her concentration on the money issue, and her unruly mind focused instead on him. He looked preoccupied and distant—his brows drawn together, his hard jaw set with iron determination as he contemplated the game of human chess they were playing.

He'd invited Sam out to dinner a week ago, and somehow she'd gathered enough strength to decline. By then, her attraction to him had grown so powerful that she actually had to concentrate on breathing evenly when he was nearby If she looked at his mouth, she wondered how it would feel to have those sculpted male lips on hers. If he was within arm's reach, she had an insane impulse to trace her fingertip over the scar on his tanned cheek—and then lean forward and press her lips to it. If he wasn't within reach—she wanted him to be.

The day he asked her to have dinner with him, they'd been in his office, combing through boxes of files and records subpoenaed from Manning's apartment. Before Sam had finished quietly saying, "I think that would be a mistake for both of us," she was already wishing she could take the words back. She felt much better when he said with a slight smile. "I'm sure it would have been." And then—inexplicably—she felt much worse.

He had a wary, sardonic charm that captivated and disarmed her, and to make everything more complicated, she genuinely liked and admired every single thing about him. He wasn't like any male she'd ever known before; he was smarter than she was, and she was very smart. He was wiser than she was, and she was pretty wise. He was stronger, tougher, and more astute than she was—and she loved the fact that he was those things. And she particularly loved that, unlike her brothers, McCord never felt a need to demonstrate that he was stronger, tougher, and more astute.

The telephone on his desk rang, and Sam watched his long fingers grasp the receiver and pick it up. He had beautiful, strong hands with well-shaped fingers—hands that would unerringly seek out every vulnerable spot on her body if she gave him a chance. But she wasn't going to give him one.

He hadn't repeated the dinner invitation or referred to it again. In fact, it was as if he'd never made the suggestion at all. He treated Sam exactly as he had before he'd asked and she'd refused him. No displays of wounded masculine ego. No subtle retaliations in any form. He still smiled at her when the occasion warranted, and he still frowned impatiently from time to time.

He was a splendid male in every way, Sam thought wistfully—a male who actually lived up to the fullest meaning of the word "manly.'' He was what men were supposed to be and rarely were. He had principles and ethics. He dominated without ever being domineering; he taught without lecturing; he guided but never shoved—although he nudged sometimes.

He was a born leader—a natural, gifted leader. But she was not a follower. She could never let herself be that.

He was tough as granite and soft as a whisper—or he would be, she was certain, if he were properly matched with the right woman.

But she was not that woman.

To allow a relationship to blossom between them would have been pure folly for them both.

She jumped when she realized he'd hung up the phone and was talking to them. "As I started to explain a few minutes ago—" he said with his gaze leveled on Sam, silently prodding her to snap out of it and pay attention, "we're going to be entertaining an uninvited guest this morning. Actually, this is an historic occasion, because this particular guest has made it a lifelong habit to throw our invitations into his lawyer's trash can whenever we've urged him to drop by for a chat."

"What?" Sam said with a chuckle at McCord's unprecedented lapse into lengthy metaphor when he was usually so crisp and frank.

"This morning, Valente's lawyer called and invited us to a tête-à-tête at his client's office," McCord clarified, and Sam realized it was helpless frustration that was making McCord avoid stating the simple truth. "I, of course, declined. Buchanan then suggested we meet here, instead. I declined again. However, after he warned me of the tiresome legal papers he'd file if I didn't invite him over here, I graciously agreed." He glanced at his watch and said abruptly and with distaste, "They'll be here soon."

"Did Buchanan say what the hell he wants?" Womack put in suddenly, wiping off the lenses of his bifocals. He was so quiet at times that Sam would almost forget he was there, but when he spoke, he was surprisingly forceful and frequently caustic.

"He said," McCord sardonically replied, "that he believes his client is the subject of our murder investigation and he wishes to spare all of us here the needless inconvenience and expense of pursuing a senseless theory."

"I wonder what brought that on," Womack said, his brows drawn together.

"For one thing, Valente knows he's being tailed. He shook off the tail last night as soon as Mrs. Manning finished 'chatting' with the reporters and got into his car. However," he continued with grim amusement, "one of our cruisers happened to spot Valente's Bentley down at a restaurant on Great Jones Street. Guess which restaurant he took her to?"

"His aunt's place," Shrader put in.

"Angelini's," McCord confirmed with a nod. "She also spent the night with him last night." Leaning back in his chair, he picked up a pencil, and flipped back through the pages of his tablet. "I can't believe we haven't been able to connect Valente and Leigh Manning prior to that opening night party."

He read from his notes, ticking off each item as he covered it with them: "We've checked all of Valente's phone records and the Mannings' phone records as well. The only calls made to Valente were a few from Logan Manning's office placed during the month before he died. The only call made to Valente from the Manning residence was on the day before he disappeared, when Mrs. Manning was at the theater getting ready for opening night."

He glanced up briefly to see if anyone had anything to add. "We've checked with the doormen at both their residences, and we've checked with waiters at every restaurant and bar where Valente's used a credit card in the last year. Nobody has ever seen them together, except at that party on the night before Manning disappeared. Now, of course, they're inseparable and they phone each other regularly."

Tossing his pencil on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. "We know from Valente's note to her that they were pretending they didn't know each other that night, but how in the hell have they been keeping in touch? How can two people carry on an affair, let alone plan a murder, without leaving a trace of their association? When did they first get together, how long has this been going on?"

Sam suddenly stiffened. "What street did you say Angelina's is on?"

"Great Jones Street. You were the one who knew all about that restaurant," he reminded her, frowning in puzzlement at her question and her sudden, avid interest.

"Yes, but I've never been there. What's the address on Great Jones Street?"

"The street is only a few blocks long. What difference does it make?"

Sam burst out laughing and stood up. "They've known each other forever!" Without another word, she turned and headed for her desk, where she'd left Leigh Manning's file.