ormerly called "interrogation rooms," the interview rooms were located on the far side of the third floor, diagonally opposite McCord's office, between two short, busy hallways at the rear of the building. The front hallway had entrance doors into the rooms and large glass windows where passersby could see, and be seen. The rear hallway had one-way mirrors where detectives and police officers could gather to observe and hear what was taking place in each room without being observed themselves.

Instead of waiting inside the interview room as they'd been instructed to do, Michael Valente and his attorney were standing outside it in the hall, drinking coffee. It was, Sam decided, a small but deliberate defiance designed to subtly wrest control from McCord.

McCord took it as such and retaliated by stalking past both men without a glance. He opened the door to the interview room, and with a rude jerk of his head, he snapped an order at them. "Inside!"

Shrader and Womack were already making the turn to the back hall as Captain Holland strode past Sam with four other men, all headed in the same direction. Valente's voluntary appearance at the precinct was evidently drawing a crowd, Sam realized, wondering how many people were already gathered back there to watch the proceedings through the one-way mirror.

She waited for Buchanan and Valente to precede her into the room; then she followed them inside and closed the door.

McCord went to the right side of the oblong table in the center of the room. "Sit down," he ordered his adversaries, nodding toward the chairs on the left of the table.

Valente unhurriedly sat down; then he opened his topcoat, leaned back in his chair, and casually propped his right ankle atop his opposite knee—a deliberately indolent posture that conveyed his utter lack of respect for the occasion, and for the detectives present.

McCord angled his chair sideways, put his yellow tablet in his lap, and looked over his right shoulder at Valente, impatiently tapping the end of his pencil on the table. Waiting.

Sam made a mental snapshot of the two silent men and subtitled it: "If I can't win, I won't play."

Buchanan sat down, opened his briefcase, and broke the electrified silence by saying, "It's our belief that Mr. Valente is a suspect in the murder of Logan Manning."

McCord's gaze shifted to Buchanan, and he shrugged. "No one has accused him of that."

"That's true. In fact, no one's even questioned him. Why is that, Lieutenant?"

"I'm the one who asks the questions," McCord explained as if he were reprimanding a rude fourth grader on a field trip at the precinct, "and you're the one who gives the answers. Now, you asked for this meeting. If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise," McCord added acidly, "there's the door. Use it."

Gordon Buchanan's aristocratic face remained perfectly composed, but Sam saw a muscle begin to tick in the side of Valente's clamped jaw. "For the record," Buchanan said smoothly and unemotionally, "Mr. Valente could not possibly be your murderer. Here is a schedule of his whereabouts on that Sunday, along with names and phone numbers of witnesses who can verify his presence. As you will discover when you read this, my client was at lunch and then a Knicks game with three business associates. After the game, the men went to the Century Club, where they discussed business until six. At nine P.M., he had dinner in a public restaurant where he is known and recognized, with a woman whose name is on that list. At one A.M., he returned home, where he made several lengthy telephone calls to business associates in Asia. His chauffeur, his doorman, and his telephone records will all verify the last part of that."

McCord reached for the paper and then deliberately ignored it once it was in his hand. "I'm told Mr. Valente doesn't like to volunteer information. One might even say that he always goes out of his way to be uncooperative. I'm curious about his motives for coming here today and offering information to assist us in thisparticular case."

Buchanan closed his briefcase. "My client's motives are none of your business. Your business is—presumably—to find Logan Manning's real murderer."

"Suppose I were to tell you that Mrs. Manning is our primary suspect," McCord drawled. "What would you say to that?"

Valente's savage voice was like the crack of a whiplash. "I would say you're out of your fucking mind."

McCord's head snapped toward Valente, and Sam watched the two foes finally confront each other eye to eye—a cunning hunter, a dangerous predator. They were silent for a moment, mentally circling each other; then the hunter smiled. "I was under the impression you and Mrs. Manning were complete strangers until the night you met at her party. Do you have more than a casual interest in her?"

"Cut the bullshit!" Valente snapped, rolling to his feet with the sudden, deadly grace of the panther he reminded Sam of at that moment. "You've had us both under surveillance for weeks. You know damned well she spent the night with me last night."

Buchanan hurriedly stood up, too, giving Sam the impression the attorney was worried about what his client might do next, but McCord was moving in for another attack. "You knew her a long time ago, didn't you? Fourteen years ago, to be exact."

"You just figured that out?" Valente shook his head as if he couldn't believe the stupidity he had to deal with: then he walked out with Buchanan on his heels.

For several moments, McCord stared after them, his jaw clenched with inexplicable anger; then he said softly, as if to himself, ''Son of a bitch! He was ready to talk…"

He glanced over at Sam and said in furious self-disgust, "I should have gauged him myself, but I thought I knew everything there was to know about him from his files, so I shoved him into a wall right from the start. I showed him how tough I was, so he had to show me he didn't give a shit. You were right, Sam. The Ice Man has a hot spot—no, he's got a soft spot for Leigh Manning. If I hadn't strong-armed him, if I'd have played straighter with him, I think he'd have told me something I needed to know. He'll never give us another shot—"

Jumping to her feet, Sam ran for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To try to play straight with him!" she called over her shoulder, racing toward the back hall and the stairwell there. She shoved past a startled Captain Holland and his group, who were still standing by the one-way mirror, talking about Valente's visit. Praying the elevators would be as crowded and slow as they usually were, she slammed against the heavy stairwell door and sprinted down two flights of stairs, her footsteps ringing loudly, her heartbeat almost matching them.