So much for proper partners.

M. J. Novak's origins, her hardscrabble youth, were, if anything, an asset. She was a survivor, a woman who'd wrestled the challenges life had thrown at her and come out the stronger for it. Could any of his friends, with their money and their platinum exteriors, have done the same? he wondered.

And then, even more troubling, was the next thought: Could he have?

It was something he'd never know, could never know.

Not until he was put to the test.

The phone was ringing when M. J. walked into her office the next morning. She ignored it. After all, it was only seven-thirty; let someone else pick up the line. Calmly she hung up her coat, slid her purse in the desk drawer, revved up Mr. Coffee for a six-cup pot. An IV infusion of caffeine was what she really needed this morning. It had been a sleepless night on a lumpy motel bed, and she was feeling as alert as a grizzly bear in January and just about as cheerful.

She found her desk littered with pink message slips, taped in a haphazard collage. Calls from her overwhelmed insurance agent, from the DA's, from defense attorneys, from a mortuary. And from Adam, of course-five calls, judging by the number of slips. On the last slip, the night tech had scrawled in frustration: "Call this guy, will ya?" M. J. crumpled up all the message slips from Adam and tossed them in the trash can.

The phone rang. She frowned at it, watched it ring once, twice, three times. Wearily she picked it up. "M. J. Novak."

"M. J.! I've been trying to reach you-"

"Morning, Adam. How're things?"

There was a long pause. "Obviously," he said, "we have to talk."

"About what?"

"About why you left."

"Simple." She leaned back and propped her feet up on a chair. "It was time to leave. You've been great to me, Adam. You really have. But I didn't want to wear out the welcome. And I had to find my own place eventually, so I-"

"So you ran."

"No. I walked."

"You turned tail and ran."

Her spine stiffened. "And what, exactly, am I supposed to be running from?"

"From me. From the chance it might not work."

"Look, I have things to do right now-"

"Is it so hard for you, M. J., to stick your neck out? It's not easy for me, either. I take a step toward you, you take a step back. I say the wrong thing, look at you the wrong way, and you're off like a shot. I don't know how to deal with it."

"Then don't."

"Is that what you really want?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't know what I want."

"I think you do. But you're too scared to follow your heart."

"How the hell do you know what's in my heart?"

"Wild guess?"

"It's not like Cinderella, okay?" she snapped. "Girls from the Projects don't have fairy godmothers to spiff them up. And they don't find happily-ever-afters in Surry Heights. Isabel gave me the straight scoop and I appreciate that. I'd be out to sea with your country club set. Too many damn forks on the table. Too many cute French words. Face it, I can't ski, I can't ride a horse, and I can't tell the difference between Burgundy and Beaujolais. It's all red wine to me. I don't see any way of getting past that. No matter how much you may lust after my body, you'll find after a while that it isn't enough. You'll want a fancier package. And I'll just want to be me."

"I never took you for a coward before."

She laughed. "Go ahead, insult me if it makes you feel better."

"You'll risk your neck for an old car. You'll march into a damn combat zone without blinking. But you're too scared to take a chance on me."

"You're a long shot, Quantrell."

"So are you. But I'm not running."

She laughed again. "You will. A few bumps in the road. A few rough times. It'll be easy for you to leave me."

"You must think I'm pretty spineless."

"I think you're human. Nice, but human. And humans always choose the easy way out."

"Easy?" Now it was his turn to laugh. "If I wanted easy, I wouldn't be having this conversation. And I wouldn't be asking you out to lunch."

She paused. "Lunch?"

"You know. As in a meal, traditionally taken at midday. I'll pick you up at noon. Restaurant of your choice."

"I can't," she said, glancing at one of the message slips taped to her desk. She suddenly noticed it was from the Greenwood Mortuary, in response to a call she'd made to them yesterday.

"Can't?" he asked. "Or won't?"

"Can't," she said, and folded the slip in half. "I have another engagement."

"Where are you going?"

"A burial."

Grim affairs, burials. Grimmer still is a pauper's burial. There are no gaudy sprays of gladioli, no wreaths, no sobbing family and friends. There is just a coffin and a muddy hole in the ground. And the burial crew, of course: in this case, two sallow-faced gravediggers, their hats dripping with rain, and a blacksuited official from the Greenwood Mortuary, huddled beneath an umbrella. Peggy Sue Barnett was being laid to her everlasting rest in the company of total strangers.

M. J. stood in the shelter of a nearby maple tree and sadly watched the proceedings. It was the starkest of ceremonies, words uttered tonelessly under gray skies, rain splattering the coffin. The official kept glancing around, as though to confirm that he was playing to an audience-any audience. At least I'm here, thought M. J. Even if I am just another stranger at her graveside. A short distance away, Vince Shradick also stood watching the scene. Cemeteries were routine stops for the boys from Homicide. They knew that two types of people attended victims' funerals: those who came to mourn, and those who came to gloat.

In Peggy Sue Barnett's case, no one at all appeared. Those who passed through the cemetery this afternoon seemed intent on their own business: a couple, bearing flowers to a loved one; an elderly woman, picking dead leaves off a grave; a groundskeeper, rattling by in a golf cart filled with tools. They all glanced at the coffin, but their looks were only mildly curious.

The rain let up to a fine drizzle. In a still mist, the burial crew set to work, shoveling earth into the trench. Shradick came over to M. J. and muttered, "This was a bust. Not a goddamn soul." He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. "And I'll probably catch pneumonia for my trouble."

"You'd think there'd be someone," said M. J.

"Weather might have something to do with it." Shradick glanced up at the sky and pulled his raincoat closer. "Or maybe she didn't have any friends."

"Everyone has a connection. To someone."

"Well, I think we got us a dead end." Shradick looked back at the grave. "Real dead."

"So there's nothing new?"

"Nada. Lou's ready to call it quits. Told me not to bother coming out here today."

"But you came."

"Hate to walk away from a case. Even if Lou thinks it's a waste of time."

They watched as the last shovelful of dirt was tossed onto the grave. The crew patted it down, gave their handiwork one final inspection, and walked away.

After awhile, so did Shradick.

M. J. was left standing alone under the tree. Slowly she crossed the wet grass to the grave and stared down at the mound. There was no headstone yet, no marker. Nothing to identify the woman who lay beneath this bare pile of dirt. Who were you, Peggy Sue Burnett? Were you so alone in this world that no one even noticed when you left it?

"It's not as if you can do anything about it." said a voice behind her.

She turned and saw Adam. He was standing a few feet away, mist sheening his hair.

She looked back down at the grave. "I know."

"So why did you come?"