weeney left her bed a little after three A.M. She made the trip through the dark apartment without stumbling or hesitating. Her expression was calmly distant; she scarcely blinked. Her heartbeat was slow and regular.

When she reached the unfinished painting, still propped on the easel, she stood before it for a long time with her head slightly tilted, as if listening to some unseen voice.

Her movements were slow, dreamy, as she mixed a rich brown pigment and then darkened it with black. When the shade was that of dark, lustrous mink, she began to paint, her precise brushstrokes re-creating a fan of dark hair, spread in disarray across an oatmeal carpet.

The face was much more difficult, the expression not one she had ever seen. The late summer dawn crept closer as she painstakingly filled in a lovely face that had turned ashen, dark eyes open and glazed in death, lipsticked mouth slack. The studio was already filling with light when she methodically put her brushes into a can of turpentine, capped the tubes of paint, and returned to bed as quietly as she had left it.

The sun was streaming brightly in the window when Sweeney woke. She was huddled in a tight ball, her arms wrapped around herself in an unconscious effort to conserve heat. The chill was incredible, colder and deeper than it had ever been before. She was shaking so violently the bed trembled.

Richard. She needed Richard.

Whimpering, she managed to crawl to the side of the bed. The red numerals on the digital clock were dimmed by the bright light, but they were undoubtedly a one, a zero, a three, and a four. Ten-thirty-four.

Why hadn't Richard called?

He should have called. If she didn't call him, then he called her. How fast their routine had been established! She had come to rely on him even faster. His absence shook her, rattled a newborn security that she was just beginning to believe.

"Richard," she whispered, as if she could call him to her. Her voice was thin and weak.

Don't panic, don't panic, she thought. She could do this. She wasn't likely to die, she reassured herself; she just thought that she would. Whatever weird rules governed this psychic stuff, she had never heard that practicing it killed off the practitioner. Not that she'd had time to research clairvoyance or anything like that; she had concentrated on ghosts. Maybe a psychic only got one shot, like a male praying mantis.

Call Richard. Maybe he overslept. He had probably been out late on that business dinner.

She reached for the bedside phone, but as she did a sickening certainty shot through her. The painting. She was beginning to notice a trend: the more work she did, the colder she was when the reaction hit her. This was the coldest she had been.

During the night, she had put a face on the victim.

Urgency drove her to her feet. She stumbled to the studio, her coordination slow and clumsy. She had to know, she had to know now. Every second could count. Richard thought she did the work after the fact, but deep inside she wasn't certain, and that uncertainty kept her feet moving, even though they felt as if they didn't belong to her and didn't go quite where she wanted to place them. She wobbled across the room, wincing at the effort it took to move, at the deep internal aches that were beginning to make themselves felt.

Then she reached the painting, and wished she hadn't. She hung in front of it, blood roaring in her ears, shaking so hard she clenched her teeth to keep from breaking them.

Candra.

She stared at the canvas until her eyes hurt, hoping the features would suddenly rearrange themselves into someone else's. She was mistaken. She was seeing only a superficial likeness, and because Candra was so prominent in her life these days, naturally she jumped to that conclusion.

But the face was eerily accurate, with the photographic quality of a Gerhard Richter painting. And Sweeney knew she was very, very good at portraits.

Candra.

Oh God, oh God.

She didn't know Candra's number. It would be unlisted, because Candra had once said she never allowed her number to be published. The gallery. She slould be at the gallery, and Sweeney knew that number.

She made it to the living room and the cordless phone. But the phone rang and rang, and finally an answering machine picked up. Frustrated, Sweeney disconnected. Her hands shook so violently she dropped the phone, and when she bent to pick it up, her strength seemed to give out and she just kept going, down to the floor.

She landed on the phone, a hard plastic corner digging into her ribs. Groaning, she managed to sit up and cradled the phone in her lap while she punched in Richard's number.

One of his assistants answered, her voice strangely muted.

"This is S-Sweeney. Is Richard in?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Sweeney, but he won't be in today." She hesitated, then said, "Mrs. Worth—Candra—has been killed."

"No," Sweeney moaned, almost weeping.

"The housekeeper found the… the body when she arrived this morning. Mr. Worth is with the police right now."

She was crying after all, Sweeney discovered. She gulped, and in a thick voice said, "Tell Richard I c-called."

"I will, Ms. Sweeney, as soon as possible."

So Richard had been right; she couldn't help, couldn't stop anything. Sobbing, Sweeney rested her head on her drawn-up knees. What good was any of this, then, if she couldn't do anything about the horrors she painted? Why suffer this savage chill, when there was no opportunity to keep bad things from happening? There should be a payback, something to make this pain worthwhile.

Her leg muscles suddenly protested their prolonged tension and knotted into cramps so vicious she cried out. Panting, crying, she dug the heels of her hands into her thighs and stroked toward her knees, trying to knead the muscles into relaxing. Over and over she did it, but her muscles seem to knot again just behind the stroking motion.

Once she had seen a trainer rub a cramp out of the calf of a football player. He had used both hands in a back-and-forth motion. She held her breath to steady herself and placed both hands on one thigh. She could feel the knotted muscle between her palms. A half-cry of pain burst from her throat as she began that brisk washing motion, but within seconds the pain began to ebb, at least in that thigh.

With that leg finally relaxed, she did the same thing to her right thigh. That cramp was more stubborn, returning as soon as she stopped the massage. She kept at it for five minutes and finally her thigh relaxed. Her entire body felt like a balloon with a leak; she toppled over, going boneless, without the strength to sit up any longer.

Heat. She had to have heat. Richard wouldn't be coming. He was still legally Candra's husband; he would be giving information to the police, filling out reports, probably identifying Candra's body, making arrangements. Sweeney had his cell phone number, but calling him was out of the question. She had to take care of this herself.

The electric blanket wouldn't help. Hot coffee would help a little, but not enough. Body heat was moist heat, because the body was mostly water. That was what she needed: moist heat. The shower wouldn't be enough. She needed to immerse herself in hot water.

She crawled into the bathroom, dragging herself like a wounded animal. Her arms and legs barely functioned, and she could feel her thoughts slowing.

She never took a tub bath; she always showered. She stared at the lever that closed the drain for several long moments before she figured out how to work it, though of course she knew. The cold was making her stupid.

She turned the hot water on full blast and watched steam begin to fill the air. A remnant of common sense kicked in, and she turned on the cold water, too. If she got the water too hot, she would scald herself, and even if it wasn't hot enough to scald, it could still kill; a lot of people had died in hot tubs when prolonged immersion caused heart failure. She had to be careful.

She put her hand under the faucet, and blessed heat poured over her fingers. It felt so good she put the other hand under the faucet, too, lying with her body draped over the edge of the tub because she didn't have the strength to sit up.

When the water was deep enough to reach the overflow drain, she turned off the faucet and crawled into the tub without bothering to take off her pajamas. She almost howled as she sank into the hot water, the heat was so intense. Her toes throbbed. She stared at her bare feet through the clear water; they looked white with cold, almost shrunken.

She sank down until her chin touched the surface of the water. Tendrils of hair floated around her shoulders. Her trembling sent little wavelets sloshing to-and-fro. "Please please please," she heard herself saying, over and over. Please let this work. If it didn't, she would have to call 911. Probably she should already have done it, but a part of her just couldn't believe a chill was serious.

She began to warm. It was a gradual process, the heat of the water transferring to her flesh. The shivering began to dwindle, so that it wasn't ceaseless, letting her relax between the episodes. Exhausted, she laid her head against the sloping back of the tub. Always before, when she was warm, she got sleepy, and the colder she had been the sleepier she got. She would have to be careful not to fall asleep in the tub.

The water began to cool. Her fingers and toes grew pink and wrinkled. She let out some of the water, then turned on the hot water to refill the tub, but she forced herself to sit up. The danger of falling asleep was a real one, and so was staying in the water too long. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself.

Sometime during those few minutes she began crying again. Like most people, Candra had been neither wholly good nor wholly bad. Until she had seen Sweeney and Richard together, she had always been warm and friendly. Candra's support had meant a lot to Sweeney's career.

Sweeney regretted the way they had parted. She didn't, couldn't, regret her involvement with Richard, but the timing could have been better. If the divorce had been final, if Candra hadn't been bitter about the settlement— There were so many things to which she could tack an "if", and not one of them could be changed.

She didn't dare stay in the water any longer. She opened the drain and hauled herself, trembling, to a standing position. Her muscles felt like boiled noodles. She removed her dripping pajamas, peeling them off and hanging them over the shower curtain rod to drip. Toweling off required immense effort. She finally had to sit down on the toilet lid to finish drying her legs and feet.

She blotted the dripping ends of her hair. She had to go back to bed, at least for a while, but she didn't want to do it with wet hair. That seemed to be asking for another chill. Her eyelids drooped, and she sagged sideways, catching herself at the last moment. She couldn't wait for her hair to dry, either. She could always cut it off, she thought, and then shook her head as a measure of common sense kicked in again. She plucked a dry towel from the stack and wrapped it around her head, tucking all the wet ends up under the cloth. That was the best she could do.

She wobbled her way to bed. The electric blanket was still on. Naked, she crawled between the blissfully warm sheets and was asleep as soon as her muscles relaxed.

Detective Joseph Aquino was a burly guy with shrewd eyes and a homely, lived-in face that invited confidences. Detective H. E. Ritenour was lean and more pugnacious, his sandy hair cut military short, and he had a habit of fixing his pale gaze on suspects and not blinking until they began to squirm.

Richard didn't play games. He didn't fidget, and he would bet the discipline trained into him would outlast the detective's technique. He wondered if Ritenour would stare until his eyes dried out.

When they had come to his house early that morning to tell him of Candra's death, he had known immediately he was at the top of their list of most-likely suspects. He kept his behavior low-key and cooperated with everything they asked of him, functioning despite the shock that tried to numb his brain.

He hadn't loved Candra in a long time, and for the past year had actively hated her, but he had never wanted her dead. He just wanted her out of his life. Now she was, in the most final way. The death of someone you knew well was always a shock, like a wound in your concept of reality. The world had changed, and for a while you had to struggle with the abrupt alteration.

Because their divorce wasn't final, he was still legally responsible for the arrangements. He identified her body, and though he had seen bodies before, that had been in military action, undeclared war, where they had gone in knowing there could be casualties and accepted the risk, doing it anyway. This was different. This was the woman with whom he had shared his life, even if only superficially, for ten years. He had slept with her, made love to her, and, in the beginning at least, loved her. All he could feel now was regret, but it was genuine.

He called her parents, who had moved from Manhattan when her father lost almost every penny he had in some bad stock decisions. Now Charles and Helene Maxson lived just outside Ithaca, their circumstances so reduced Candra had always invited them to the city rather than spend a night in what she called "little more than a shack," though Richard thought the brick ranch house was upper-middle-class and a lot better than what most people had. But Candra had grown up in wealth, while Richard had a different perspective.

Because of the circumstances, Richard quietly told Charles he would defer to him and Helene in the necessary decisions. Candra was their daughter; their grief was sharp. The location and means of interment would be their choice, as would the service.

Every step he took, Richard was aware of the pair of detectives. One or both of them was always within earshot when he was on the phone. Any resentment he felt was immediately controlled, because they had a job to do and murder statistics showed that any time a woman was murdered, either her husband or boyfriend was the one most likely to have done the deed. Because he and Candra had been embroiled in a divorce, that tipped the percentages heavily against him. So he remained calm, even when the detectives finally took the step of taking him into precinct headquarters and sat down with him in an interrogation room, a small, dingy square space occupied by three chairs and a beat-up table that wobbled.

He was read his rights and asked if he wanted to call his attorney. "No," he said, surprising both of them.

"You want a cup of coffee, some water?" Ritenour asked.

"No, thank you," Richard said, and managed to hide a small spurt of amusement. That was a basic trick; offer the suspect anything he wanted to drink, keep the coffee coming, and pretty soon he would be squirming with the need to piss. Only they wouldn't let him go; they would keep him there, asking the same questions over and over, maybe phrased a little differently, while the sap's bladder got more and more uncomfortable.

He made himself as comfortable as possible in the chair to which they had steered him, which made him wonder if the front legs had been shortened a little so he would slide forward every time he tried to relax. He put both feet solidly on the floor and kept them there.

Detective Ritenour started. "The housekeeper says you and Mrs. Worth were divorcing."

"That's right." Richard kept his tone neutral. "We've been separated a year."

"Divorces are messy things. I've been through two of them myself."

"They aren't pleasant, no."

"People get all upset. It's understandable. You'd have a lot to lose, wouldn't you, Mr. Worth?"

"In what way?"

"C'mon, you're worth a lot of money, no pun intended. A woman can take a man to the cleaners, get everything he's worked for, unless he's smart enough to protect himself from the beginning. You didn't have much money when you and Mrs. Worth married, though, did you?"

"No."

"So there wouldn't have been any need for a prenup then."

"Gentlemen." Richard said it quietly, because he sympathized with them. He wanted them to succeed. "If you're asking if I stood to lose half of everything I own, the answer is no. When we married, my wife's family was wealthy. Her father insisted on a prenuptial agreement. His intent was to protect his money from me in case of divorce, but the agreement went both ways. She kept what was hers; I kept what was mine. Candra couldn't touch anything."

He saw the quick glance that went between the two detectives. One of their motives had just gone down the drain.

"You'll have a copy of that agreement, of course."

"My lawyer has it. Gavin Welles. Candra's attorney, Olivia Yu, also has a copy."

They made a note of the names.

"The housekeeper said you and Mrs. Worth had been having some trouble coming to an agreement about the settlement."

The housekeeper had said a lot, Richard thought. "Candra wasn't happy with the settlement. She wanted more. We had several arguments about it, but she had agreed to sign the papers. We had an appointment with the attorneys today, at one o'clock, to sign the papers." Automatically Richard glanced at his watch and saw that it was after two already. He hadn't called Gavin to cancel the appointment, but Gavin would know. Someone would have called him. Olivia, probably. One of Candra's friends would have called Olivia immediately, in the guise of passing along the news but really trying to find out some of the details.

The news that Candra had agreed to a settlement took away another of their motives. The two detectives looked thoughtful.

"Did you have a key to her new apartment?" Detective Aquino asked, the first words he had spoken since they entered the interrogation room.

Richard shook his head. "No, not likely. I've never been in her apartment."

"Never?"

"Never." Never was an absolute term, difficult to support. Knowing they were now thinking along the lines of fiber samples, he said, "She came to my town house a couple of times to talk, and to collect her belongings, but I never went to her place. "

They hid their disappointment well. Any crosscontamination of fiber samples between the two dwellings now had an explanation. Everything Richard had said was something that could be easily verified, and they knew it.

"Mrs. Worth was a popular woman. Were you jealous of her male friends?"

Richard couldn't help it. He laughed. The sound wasn't particularly humorous. "No."

"When she filed for divorce—"

"She didn't file. I did."

"You did?" Another quick look between them. "Why was that?"

Richard had never told another soul why his break with Candra had been so abrupt and final. Sweeney knew, but only because she had been present during that last argument. He didn't want to say anything against Candra now, especially not anything that would get back to her parents.

"I don't want her family to know," he finally said. "It would hurt them."

"Know what, Mr. Worth?"

"I found out she had an abortion two years ago. She hadn't told me she was pregnant."

Both men sat back, frowning.

"I guess you were upset," Detective Aquino said.

Richard flashed him a disbelieving look. "A little." He couldn't hold back the sarcastic edge. "Our marriage was over right then. I never wanted to see her again. I threw her out, changed the locks on the town house, and filed for divorce the next day."

"Were you still angry with her?"

"Bitter. Regretful."

"Where were you last night, Mr. Worth?"

"I had a business dinner at the Four Seasons." That too would be easily verified.

"What time did you leave?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Where did you go then?"

"Home."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes."

"Did you make any calls, talk to anyone?"

"No. I did some stock analysis on my computer, cleared up E-mail messages, that kind of thing. The time will be on the computer log."

"What time did you stop work?"

"After midnight. Closer to one, I guess." He had no idea what time they thought Candra had been killed, though he had heard someone remark she had still been wearing the dress she wore to a party. Logically, that would put the time of death close to when she arrived home. Candra had been known to stay until a party died, whether that was midnight or dawn.

"What did you do then?"

"Went to bed."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

Detective Aquino sighed. Detective Ritenour looked tired. Richard knew he was their best bet, and he had taken away all the usual motives. What had probably looked like a fairly simple case had become more complicated.

"We'd like you to stay while we verify a few things," Detective Ritenour said.

"I understand." Richard flashed a level look at them, one that said he was well aware of everything that had been going on. "And I'll take you up on that coffee now, if I'll be allowed near a bathroom."

Rueful smiles flashed across their faces, quickly erased. "Sure thing. How do you want it?"

"Black."

"Not a good choice," Aquino said on his way out. "This stuff needs diluting with something, even if it's paint thinner."

"I'll take my chances." He thought of Sweeney, wondering, fearing, how she had weathered the night. The painting she had been doing was, he was certain now, of Candra. Had she completed it last night? Was she in shock? Did she need him?

He wanted to call her. The urge was so powerful he could barely contain it, but he fought it down. Bringing her to the detectives' notice would only involve her in this. He hadn't been to the death scene, but if Sweeney's painting was in any way accurate in the details, he could see that any detective would find that suspicious. And he wondered if the other face, the killer's, was still blank.

"May I call my office?" he asked. Sweeney would have called there if she needed him.

"Sure. Use the telephone on my desk," Ritenour offered. He would be able to listen to every word Richard said. Their suspicion had eased, but not completely disappeared. It wouldn't until everything Richard told them had been verified.

Richard stood beside the desk and dialed the office number. Tabitha Hamrick, budding financial genius, answered the phone. "Tab, it's Richard. Any messages?"

"Thousands of them." She sighed. "Richard, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I've notified her family, and I'm giving them their choice in everything. They should be here soon. Ah, hell, I forgot to make their hotel reservations. Would you do that for me? The Plaza. I'll pick up the tab."

"Sure thing. Oh, Ms. Sweeney called this morning. I told her I'd tell you."

"Thanks." He wanted to ask how Sweeney had sounded, but couldn't. "What time was that?"

"I think it was close to eleven. I made a note.... Here it is. Ten-fifty-seven."

Fairly late in the morning. She should have been okay by then. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Thanks."

"Will you be in this afternoon?"

Richard glanced over at Ritenour. "This will take another couple of hours, right?"

"Right." Ritenour gave a faintly apologetic shrug. He wasn't nearly as pugnacious as he had been before the interview.

"No, I won't make it in. I'll see you in the morning."

He hung up and worked his shoulders, shrugging the kinks out of them. Aquino appeared with three cups of coffee sandwiched in his hands. Richard took the one that was black. Aquino and Ritenour both drank theirs with so much cream the liquid was barely brown. After the first sip, Richard knew why. But in the military he had gotten accustomed to drinking coffee this strong, for the caffeine kick.

The coffee made him think of Sweeney again, and her need for it. He needed her as he had never needed anyone, and right now he didn't dare go anywhere near her.