ichard kept tight control of himself as the afternoon dragged on. He didn't fidget; he didn't protest; he didn't threaten. The detectives were doing their job, and it wasn't their fault the things he had told them took longer to verify than he had expected. He wasn't officially under arrest; judging from the detectives' attitude, they no longer suspected him, or at least not much. He could have left. But they kept coming back to him with questions that would help them put together a picture, questions about Candra's habits and friends. Though he and Candra had been separated for a year, they had lived together for ten, and he knew her better than even her parents did.

Tabitha had canceled all his appointments. Candra's parents had arrived and were installed in the Plaza; he had spoken to them on the phone—with Detective Ritenour listening—and apologized for not being able to see them that evening. The Maxson's weren't alone; in the background he could hear the rise and fall of several voices, and knew they had called some of their old friends as soon as they checked into the hotel.

The urge to call Sweeney was almost overwhelming, and that was the one urge he had to resist. In his shock at Candra's murder, he had left his cell phone at home; he had no way of knowing if Sweeney had tried to contact him by that number. The sense of being out of touch with her gnawed at him, as if part of him were missing. He needed her, needed to feel the freshness of her personality, see the clear honesty of her gaze. It was unfair of him, now that Candra was dead, but he couldn't help comparing the two women. Candra had come from a privileged background; she had been pampered and adored, her every whim satisfied, always certain she was loved—and she had grown up to be innately selfish, unable to handle situations in which she didn't get what she wanted. She had been undeniably charming and friendly—God, it was jarring to think of her in the past tense!—so those situations hadn't come about very often, but when they did, she erupted.

On the other hand, from what little Sweeney had told him, she had been mostly ignored by her parents. Her mother's lack of feeling for her own children was appalling. He knew Sweeney's mother, though he had never met her. He had met her type. Because she was artistic, she thought that excused her from responsible behavior. She probably indulged in indiscriminate sex and drugs, and had exposed her children to God knows what.

Sweeney had grown up without love and had closed herself off from the pain by simply not letting herself form attachments. Richard strongly suspected he wouldn't have been able to get to her so fast if he hadn't caught her at this particular time, when the shock of those psychic episodes was sending her into a form of shock. Otherwise, she would have kept him at a distance for months. But despite her parents' example, or maybe because of it, she shunned their dangerous, juvenile lifestyle and had made herself into a woman of strong moral fiber.

He didn't want her touched by this, not any more than she already was. The painting involved her; if she eventually painted the face of the man standing over Candra's body—and he had no reason to doubt she would—then that knowledge would have to be shared with the detectives. It wasn't proof; the painting would in no way be admissible in court. But, if the detectives gave the information any credence, it would point them in the right direction. If they knew where to look, they would probably find the proof they needed. Perhaps he could steer them in that direction without mentioning the painting or involving Sweeney at all.

"Did Mrs. Worth have a will?" Detective Aquino asked abruptly.

"I don't know," Richard replied, dragging his thoughts away from Sweeney. "We had one when we were together, but as soon as we separated, I made a new one. She didn't have a lot of assets, though. I own the gallery, and from what I gather, she ran up a lot of debt in the past year. I had agreed to give her the gallery as part of the settlement, but that wouldn't have been included in any new will she made, if she made one at all."

"Why?" Aquino asked curiously. "Why give her the gallery? With your prenup, you didn't have to give her anything."

Richard shrugged and said simply, "So she would have the means to live."

"Mr. Worth…" Ritenour tapped his pen on the desk, his brow furrowed as he framed his question. "I know you've been separated a long time, but would you know any of the men she's been with lately? The housekeeper didn't know any names. She said when Mrs. Worth had company, she tried to stay out of the way and do her job as quietly as possible."

Richard didn't make any comment on Candra's sexual habits. "How far back do you want to go?"

They looked at each other. Aquino shrugged. "Since you separated."

"My attorney has a list." Seeing their surprise, he said, "I made it a point to know, in case I needed the information."

They both perked up. "Did you have her watched?" An investigator's report could be an invaluable aid, telling them where she went and when, whom she saw.

"Yes, but I don't think it will help. There wasn't anyone she saw more than any of the others. Candra didn't have long-term affairs. Her attractions were of the moment, and more concerned with satisfying her own appetite than with her partner. Kai, her assistant at the gallery, was probably her most frequent partner, but only because he was convenient."

There was another perking of investigative ears. "How do you spell that name?" Ritenour asked.

"K-a-i. Last name Stengel, as in Casey."

"Was he in love with her, do you think?"

"Kai doesn't love anyone but himself. I can't see him killing her, because it wouldn't be in his best interest. I gave Candra a free hand with the gallery and she hired whom she pleased, but her death before the divorce was final means the gallery remains mine, and Kai would know he was out of a job in that event."

"Because of his involvement with your wife?"

Richard shook his head. "Because he's an alley cat."

"Mr. Worth, pardon me for asking," Detective Aquino said, "but a man like you—How did you stand it, knowing your wife had all these affairs?"

Richard's eyes were cold. "After the first time, I didn't give a damn what she did."

"But you stayed married to her."

"I took vows." And he had taken them seriously. He would have remained married to her, making the best of a bad situation, if she hadn't had the abortion. He had taken her for better or for worse, but "worse" didn't include aborting his child.

He called Gavin and had the entire investigator's report faxed to the precinct station. Gavin offered to come down in case Richard needed his legal protection, but Richard told him there was no need. He had put in an electronic buy order with his broker just before he disconnected last night, his entry coded with his password, and his Internet provider could also verify the time he was on-line, so he was covered in case the detectives had any lingering doubt. He had no motive or opportunity, and he had cooperated with them to the fullest extent.

The next time he checked the clock, the hands had ticked past seven-thirty. He was tired and hungry having refused their offer of stale cookies or peanut-butter crackers from a vending machine. The detectives looked more tired than he felt, but they doggedly kept at it. He appreciated their persistence, but the need to reassure himself Sweeney was all right was growing more urgent with every passing minute.

He had been containing his emotions all day, until he felt like a pressure cooker with the release valve stuck in the closed position. Candra's murder had stirred a cauldron of emotions; first he had been shocked by the violent death. Next came a cold fury, one so strong he could feel it surging inside him, demanding action. He had been intimate with violence, but his military missions had been against other militaries or terrorist groups, people who signed on knowing what the risks were and were armed and ready to kill him if they had the chance. Candra had been a noncombatant, unarmed, untrained, unaware. She hadn't had a prayer, and the unfairness of the attack revolted him.

He didn't resent being questioned. He did resent, bitterly, not being able to see Sweeney, or at least contact her. The choice was his own, an effort to protect her from this same sort of suspicion and questioning, but that didn't make him resent any less the necessity of making that choice. If the detectives saw that painting, they might even arrest her, and he would do whatever he could to prevent that.

Because he was growing desperate to see her, he locked himself down even tighter. If he revealed any hint of what he was feeling, the detectives' suspicions would be refueled and this would drag on longer.

At last, a little after eight, Detective Aquino stretched tiredly and said, "You've been a lot of help, Mr. Worth. Thanks for your patience. Most people would have gotten upset, but we had to ask the questions."

"I know the statistics," Richard said. "I understood. I assume I'm no longer a suspect?"

"Everything you told us checked out. Your Internet server verified the times you were on-line last night at the crucial time—and thank you for giving them permission to give us that information without having to get papers on it. That saved us a lot of time."

"She didn't deserve what happened," Richard said. "No matter what our differences were, she didn't deserve that." He stood and stretched his tired back muscles. "I'll be at home if you have any more questions."

"I'll get a patrolman to take you home," Detective Ritenour offered.

"Thanks, that isn't necessary I'll catch a cab." Calling Edward to pick him up would be a waste of time; by the time Edward got here, he could be home.

Leaving the precinct, he walked down to the corner to catch a cab, but traffic seemed to be light on that street. Two blocks over was a busier street, so he kept walking. The tension in him was building. Home. In less than thirty minutes now he would be home. He would talk to Sweeney. He thought about taking the cab directly to her place, but caution kept him from it. Any direct contact with her now could bring unwanted attention down on her. The detectives would probably find out about her anyway, eventually—depending on whom Candra had told about seeing Richard and Sweeney together—but every minute he could hold off the inevitable was important. She might paint the killer's face tonight, and then he would have a direction in which to steer the detectives.

He needed to shower and shave and go to the Plaza, to see Helene and Charles. Respect and common courtesy demanded that he do so, but he didn't know if he had any common courtesy left in him. He was tired, and relations between them would be awkward because of the divorce. When people were grieving, they could lash out, trying to ease their pain by placing the blame on someone or something, and he could easily see Helene making a tearful charge that if only Candra had still been living with him, this wouldn't have happened, because she wouldn't have been coming home alone. He didn't have the patience to deal with that right now. He would call them, after he talked to Sweeney, and tell them he would be over first thing in the morning.

But Sweeney came first. Until he knew she was all right, he couldn't think of anything else.

"Son of a bitch," Detective Joseph Aquino said, tiredly closing a folder and leaning back in his chair. He was actually the more impatient, rougher-edged of the two detectives, but his looks inclined people to trust him, so Ritenour usually played the hard-ass. "Nine times outta ten, it's gonna be the estranged husband kills his wife. This looked like a perfect setup, but what have we got?"

"We've got 'jack shit, is what we've got." Ritenour ticked the points off on his fingers. They both knew the points, but saying them out loud always helped. "Worth is the one who wanted the divorce. He has a prenup agreement protecting all his assets, so he doesn't have to worry about that. She had been giving him a hard time about the settlement, but she had an appointment today to sign the papers, so that wasn't an issue. He was on his computer last night at the time we estimate she got home from the party, and the M.E.'s preliminary time of death puts the murder roughly at that same time. You know the first thing a woman does when she walks in the door? She kicks off the spike heels. Mrs. Worth still had on her shoes."

"You ever run across a customer that cool, though?" Aquino rubbed his eyes. He had taken the call for the Worth murder a little before seven that morning, and had been working nonstop since. "Nothing got to him. He showed, us only what he wanted us to see."

"Joey," Ritenour said. "He didn't do it."

"The scene looked fishy, though. It looks like she surprised a burglar, but—"

"But it looks like someone wanted it to look that way."

"Yeah. The place wasn't messed up much. And those scratches on the lock. Looks like they were deliberately made. They sure as hell didn't have anything to do with popping the lock."

"Another point in Mr. Worth's favor," Ritenour said. "Don't get me wrong; I'm not suggestin' this as something he could have done. But he struck me as the kinda guy, if he wanted to make a scene look like a burglary, then it would look like a fucking burglary."

"Yeah, I know. But whoever it was knew her, and was pissed as hell. A burglar wouldn't have hacked her up like that. " Aquino drew a preliminary report to him. "He got her three times in the back, so she was running from him. Defense wounds on her arm; she was trying to fight him off. Then when she was down, he kept stabbing her."

"No signs of sexual assault. Underwear was in place; prelim shows no semen present. Her friends say she left the party last night unusually early, so the timing couldn't have been planned. She left alone." Ritenour yawned, bleary eyes focused on his notes. "The knife was from a set in her kitchen and was left at the scene. No prints. We have a lot of smears on the doorknob, a partial of Mrs. Worth's right thumb, and a good set of the housekeeper's prints."

"Doesn't look like a disgruntled boyfriend, either. She spread her joy around. There were a lot of men, but no one in particular."

"But maybe one of them wanted to be particular. You know, the sour grapes thing. If I can't have you, blah blah blah. Anybody on that list she was seeing regularly, then stopped seeing?" Ritenour doodled on his pad. Like all detectives, he and Joe kicked things back and forth between them. The give-and-take sometimes triggered a new insight.

"Nobody that recent." Aquino paused. "Senator McMillan's name on that list was interesting, but while he might not want his wife to know about it, I don't think he'd kill to keep it secret."

"Not to mention he doesn't know this list exists."

"Not to mention. Has the insurance company come through with a list of the jewelry she had insured, so we can tell what's missing?"

"Not yet. They're supposed to fax it over in the morning."

"Let's walk through this."

"We've walked through it twice already, Joe."

"Humor me." Aquino leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. "Guy breaks in. He's already got the jewelry. Maybe he plans on taking the television and stereo, too, but it's just one guy, so I doubt it. He's in the kitchen, looking in the refrigerator. Lot of people hide stuff in their refrigerators and freezers; they think it's an original hiding place, so of course a good thief always checks the fridge."

Ritenour picked up the narrative. "When she comes in, catches him, he panics. He grabs one of the knives. But he already has the jewelry, and he's stronger than she is; he can get away any time he wants. There wasn't any reason to kill her, unless she knew him."

"Like an acquaintance trying to feed a drug habit? That might fly, except for the overkill. The punk enjoyed it. That brings me back to the setup. I think the murder was deliberate, and the rest of it is just stage setting. I don't think there was a burglar."

"Then the guys on this list are our best possibilities." Sourly, Ritenour surveyed the names. "Jesus, the lady saw a lot of action. The problem is, I don't think any of these names are on the security log."

"What, you think a guy planning to commit murder is going to sign his real name for the guard?"

238

"Then how did he get in? Somebody would have to okay him, or the guard wouldn't let him go up. So he would have had to use his real name."

"Or somebody in the building was in on it with him." Glumly they stared at each other. They were getting into wild territory with a conspiracy theory, and they knew it. The murder had been too personal. So they were left with the puzzle of how the killer got into an upscale apartment building with round-the-clock security. They kept staring at each other. Ritenour arched his eyebrows. "We need a list of recent tenants."

"Yeah, we sure as hell do."

"The name won't be right, but we'll be looking for a single man, and odds are if we get photos of all the guys on this list, the guards will be able to match one of them to the new tenant."

Suddenly energized, they hit the phones. The late hour was working against them, though. There was no one in the office of the apartment building to give them a list of recent applicants. Getting photos of the men on the list would also take time; the photos of the ones who had driver's licenses could be got from the DMV, but a lot of people who lived in the city didn't drive because owning a car was such a bitch of a hassle. There was also the possibility that the guy could live across the river in New Jersey, or in Connecticut. Both were easy commutes.

"Jesus," Aquino muttered, looking at the list of Mrs. Worth's lovers. "This could take the rest of the year. Have you counted how many guys are here? The woman must have had the brains of a flea, what with AIDS and everything. Look at this. I count twenty-three new guys in the past year; then there were all the repeaters. She was in the sack with somebody at least twice a week, on average."

"My love life should be so active," Ritenour said mournfully.

"The strain would kill you. Ah, hell, we aren't going to get anything accomplished tonight." Aquino stood and stretched. "I'm going home. See ya in the morning."

"Going home's the best idea you've had all day." Following suit, Ritenour grabbed his coat. "You wanna stop off for a couple of beers?"

"Nah, you go on. I'm whacked." They were both divorced, and all either of them had waiting for them at home was laundry. The beers sounded tempting. But something was nibbling at Aquino, and he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Something about Richard Worth. It wasn't that he thought Worth was the killer; the man had no motive, and no opportunity. But he was too controlled; there hadn't been any shakes, any fidgeting, any show of temper, no visible emotion when he identified his wife's body—okay, soon-to-be ex-wife, and considering the abortion thing and all the other men, he could understand why Worth wouldn't give a damn—nothing. No sign he had a single nerve in his body. He had been patient and helpful, giving them access to his records so they could get the information a lot faster than if they had to go through legal channels. Aquino knew he had no reason to be suspicious of Worth, and he wasn't, not really. It was just a gut feeling that the guy was hiding something, that there was some loose end that needed to be secured.

He waved a careless good-bye to Ritenour, then slid his bulk behind the wheel of the nondescript tan sedan the city provided for his use. On impulse, he decided to drive by Richard Worth's town house, just to see what he could see. Hell, he might even park and keep an eye on the place for a while. In a detective, a little healthy curiosity was a good thing.

Richard gave the cabdriver a twenty and didn't wait for the change, just bounded up the steps to the town house. When he renovated the bottom floor for his offices, he had added a separate entrance for them tucked under the steps that went up to the main part of the house. The office floor was half underground, with the windows at street level protected by steel bars. He entered into a foyer, a ten-by-ten square laid with imported slate tiles. The rug centered on the tiles was a two-hundred-year-old Turkish rug so tightly woven it didn't depress under his weight as he strode across it.

He checked the answering machine in the den for messages. There were eleven of them, and he listened impatiently, fastforwarding to the next one as soon as he identified each voice. Sweeney's wasn't one of them. He dialed her number and listened to the rings, counting them in his head. On the sixth ring, her machine picked up. Her voice recited the number; then she ended with a terse, "Leave a message." Normally he would have been amused. Now he was worried sick. Goddamn it, where was she?

Sweeney hadn't meant to walk so far. The severe episode that morning had left her feeling dazed and dopey, even after she woke from the deathlike, three-hour nap. She had wandered around the apartment for hours, not expecting Richard to call but hanging around anyway, just in case he did. He would be so busy with the arrangements that she didn't expect to hear from him for a couple of days, at least.

Around sundown, though, she began to feel as if she couldn't stay inside another moment. Her thought processes felt slow and clumsy, as if she had been drugged, and she thought some fresh air might help clear her mind. Not trusting the chirpy weather lady who said the temperature was a pleasant sixty-four degrees, she pulled on a denim jacket and hit the street.

She didn't have any destination in mind. She just walked. She lived on the fringes of the Lower East Side, and the area was full of color, especially the human variety. The relatively low rents attracted artists and students by the thousands. Actors and musicians mostly gravitated to Greenwich Village, but scome of the overflow ended up in the Lower East Side. The faces were fascinating, young and old. A young couple were out for a stroll, pushing their infant in a stroller, pride and contentment shining on their faces. She caught a glimpse of the baby's tiny, flowerlike face and its minuscule hands curled on the edge of the blanket, and her hands ached to touch the fuzz that covered its head.

A teenager was walking a tangle of dogs, ranging in size from an English sheepdog, peeping through its mop of hair, down to a dachshund, trotting along in double time. A big grin lit the boy's face as he was literally towed along the sidewalk: he was on roller skates. The dogs looked happy to be of use.

Gradually the neighborhood changed. Sweeney looked at window displays, stopped in a tiny bakery for a cinnamon roll with thick icing on top, then had to have a cup of coffee to wash it down. She strolled along, hands in the pockets of her jacket, a light breeze flirting with her curls.

She tried not to think about Candra. She deliberately did not allow the image of the painting to form in her mind. She didn't think about much of anything, just kept walking.

Still, it wasn't a surprise when she looked around her and recognized the luxurious town houses and high-rise apartment buildings of the Upper East Side. She had walked at least a couple of miles, maybe more; she didn't know how many blocks constituted a mile. Richard lived here, in a town house off of Park Avenue. Candra had lived somewhere near here; Sweeney remembered Kai telling her that Candra's new apartment was in the upper somethings; she didn't remember which block.

Sweeney hadn't watched the news, just the weather. The local news would probably be full of the murder; such things didn't happen every day in one of the swank apartment buildings, and Candra was socially prominent, which made her murder even more newsworthy' Sweeney hadn't wanted to see anything about it, or hear any of the speculation.

All she wanted was to see Richard.

She walked up the street and stood looking up at the town house for several moments. She had been here once, three or four years ago, when she had briefly been in town and had stopped by at Candra's invitation while a party was in progress. Sweeney had stayed just long enough to pretend to sip some champagne, tell Candra hello, then she escaped.

Light shone through the fantail window above the door. She stared at the window, wondering if he was at home or if the light was on to make people think someone was there.

This was a bad idea. If he was home, surely there were other people with him. Friends would be offering their condolences—or perhaps not, considering the circumstances. But they would definitely be trying to get all the gory details, hot gossip they could share over coffee with other friends the next day.

She wouldn't have to go in. Just ring the doorbell, tell him… tell him something inane, such as she was thinking about him, or offer her sympathy, something like that. Maybe he had staff and didn't answer the door himself. In that case, she would leave a message. He would know she had been there, and that was the important thing.

She climbed the steps and punched the doorbell, then stuffed her hands back in her pockets, standing with her head down and the night breeze ruffling her hair while she waited for the door to open.

It was jerked open so abruptly she jumped, startled.

Richard loomed over her, glaring. "Where in hell have you been?" he barked.

She blinked. "Walking."

"Walking," he repeated in disbelief "From your apartment?"

"Yeah. I just took a walk and… ended up here."

He stared down at her, his face expressionless but his dark eyes glittering with some unreadable emotion. "Come in," he said, stepping back so she could pass by him, and after a slight hesitation, she did.

Sitting in his car thirty yards down the block, Detective Aquino raised his eyebrows, and made note of the woman's time of arrival. No particular reason why, he thought, just a cop's general nosiness.

They hadn't touched, but there had been that indefinable air of connection between them. So Worth had himself a honey; there was no law against it. In fact, after being separated for a year, the man would have had to be a damn saint not to have a lady friend.

What puzzled Aquino was why, in answering all the questions they had asked that day, not once had another woman's name been mentioned. Worth was a private man—Aquino had gathered that much—but when the issue came up, he had, reluctantly, told them about his wife's abortion. Having a lady friend was a lot less sensitive than that information. In fact, being involved with another woman would have been another point in his favor, making him even less likely to care what his estranged wife did.

But Worth hadn't mentioned his friend, and Aquino found that interesting.