"You're saying it won't work because of my towels?"

"No, I'm saying I can't see myself… fitting in here. I can't see your friends accepting me. Or you accepting me. Right now, maybe, I'm exciting for you-"

"Without a doubt."

"But it doesn't last, the novelty of a girlfriend from South Lexington. Look, you're a nice guy. I know you don't mean to hurt me. Maybe you'll even feel guilty about it when it falls apart. But I'm not the kind of woman who gets hurt, okay? I refuse to be hurt. And that's why I'd much rather stay your friend."

"Because it's doomed? A foregone conclusion, that sort of thing."

"Well, yes. I guess."

For a moment he considered that statement without apparent emotion. Then he said, quite calmly, "I suppose it is better for you. We both know how it is with these rich bastards. Love 'em and leave 'em."

"Oh, Adam." She sighed. "Please."

He rose from the bed, angrily snatched up his clothes. "I'm insulted. I'm really insulted. We make love-what I thought was love-and then you hand me the script to the rest of the affair!"

"Because I've played this part before. With Ed. With other men-"

"Also rich bastards?"

The knock on the door startled them both.

"What is it?" snapped Adam.

Thomas entered, looking quite taken aback at his employer's tone of voice. "I… thought perhaps you should know. The police are downstairs."

"What?"

"Lieutenant Beamis and that chubby sergeant. Shall I set breakfast?"

Adam sighed. "Go ahead. Lay on the bagels for Shradick."

"And some extra cream cheese," Thomas added and withdrew.

Adam and M. J. looked at each other. The tension was still there, crackling between them. So was the desire.

Push and pull. Attraction and fear. That was what she felt when she looked at him.

She picked up her clothes. "I'll see you downstairs," she said. Then she left to get dressed in the other room.

The two cops were sitting at the dining table, Beamis nursing a cup of black coffee, Shradick wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages. Both men seemed quiet, maybe a little cautious this morning. As though they had to be careful about what they said.

Something has changed , thought M. J, studying them.

She and Adam sat across the table from the cops. Though Adam was right beside her, he didn't touch her, didn't glance at her. She felt the distance between them widen with every minute that passed.

Beamis said, "It's about the Esterhaus murder. Rockwood Precinct's handed the case to us."

"Why?" asked Adam.

"Because of what's come to light." Beamis lay a large envelope on the table and slid it across to Adam. "I'm sorry to be the one to show these to you. But I need you to confirm the identity."

Puzzled, Adam pulled out a dozen photographs. At his first glimpse of the woman in the pictures, he paled. They were nude shots, in grainy black and white, amateurish and obviously home-processed. In one, the woman was sprawled suggestively across a bed, her hair fanned out, her hands cupping her breasts. In another, she pouted seductively from a bar stool, a whiskey glass raised to the camera. More photos, some taken with an apparent effort at artistic shading, others blatantly prurient. Adam stared at the thin and girlish face gazing back at him from an array of poses. Then he looked away and dropped his head in his hands.

Beamis asked: "Is it her?"

"Yes," murmured Adam. "It's Maeve."

Beamis nodded. "I thought so. I recognized her face from the photos you gave me earlier."

Adam looked up. "Where did you find these?"

"In Herbert Esterhaus's bedroom."

"What?"

"They were in in a bureau drawer. Along with a lot of other… interesting things."

Adam stared at him, shocked by the revelation. "Esterhaus and Maeve…"

"We're trying to find her, bring her in for questioning. But we can't seem to get near her. That's a tight group she hangs out with in South Lexington. It's only routine questions, of course. Ex-girlfriends are always on the list-"

"You don't think Maeve had anything to do with it?"

"As I said, it's routine. Just a drill we go through-"

Adam pointed to the photos. "I'd say Maeve is the victim here, Lieutenant!" he shot back.

"I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Q.," said Beamis. "I've got a little girl of my own, and I'd want to wring the neck of any bastard who used her like this. But a man's been killed. And now we have to go through the paces."

"I know Maeve! She wouldn't-"

"Did you know about her and Esterhaus?"

Adam paused. "No," he admitted at last. "I didn't."

Beamis shook his head. "There's a lot you never know about people. Even your own family. I'm not saying you should get panicked or anything. You're probably right, she had nothing to do with it. With the evidence we found, I'm ninety-nine percent sure she didn't. Still-"

"What evidence?" asked M. J.

"Things we found. In the victim's house."

"Aside from nude photos of ex-girlfriends?"

"Yes." Beamis looked at Adam. "What did you know about Esterhaus when you hired him?"

"Just what was in his resume. As I recall, he came well-qualified. Excellent references. Had a research position somewhere out in California."

"That shoulda tipped you off right there," said Shradick, spearing another sausage. "Who in his right mind leaves sunny California and moves to Albion?"

"You mean his references were falsified?" asked M. J.

Beamis nodded. "Courtesy of the U.S. government."

"What?"

"See, the name Herbert Esterhaus was an alias. We found his old IDs in his house. His real name was Dr. Lawrence Hebron. Oh, he was a biochemist, all right, but he didn't work for a company in California. He worked in Miami. A designer drug lab owned by the mob. A real genius, so I hear. Then he got busted and turned state's evidence. They put him in the Witness Protection Program, gave him a new name, a new resume. And a new job, with Cygnus. Where, I take it, he was working out just fine."

Adam nodded. "He was one of our best."

"And you think that's why he was killed?" asked M. J. "Old mob connections?"

"There are folks in Miami who aren't happy with him. If they traced him to Albion, then he was a dead man."

"We figure," said Shradick, wiping sausage grease from his mouth, "Esterhaus is the key to it all. Maybe he needed some extra cash, so he rips off a few grains of Zestron-L from the lab, sells it on the street. A few junkies die as a result. Then his old buddies from Miami get wind of his whereabouts, come up, and perform a little thirty eight caliber justice."

There was a silence as M. J. and Adam considered the theory. "So we're supposed to believe that Miami boys drove up and did your job for you?" said M. J. She shook her head. "Too neat. And who blew up my house?"

"Esterhaus was a biochemist," said Shradick. "He could put together a respectable bomb."

"Why? Just to shut me up?"

Beamis laughed. "There are times, Novak, when I would love to shut you up. Consider what the man was faced with, if you kept pushing your investigation. Charges of theft. Manslaughter, for those junkies. Plus, you'd blow his cover identity, so his life was at stake as well."

"And Maeve?" said M. J., glancing at the nude photos. "How does she figure in?"

"We don't know," said Beamis. "We thought maybe Mr. Q. could shed some light."

Adam shook his head, troubled by what he'd heard. "Maeve never said a word to me about any of this."

"You had no idea she was seeing Esterhaus?"

"She had her own life, her own apartment. I suspected there was a man, but I didn't know his name. And she wouldn't bother telling me." In disgust, he swept up the photos and stuffed them back in the envelope. "I'd strangle him myself, if he weren't already dead."