"Don't you even feel guilty that your do-it-yourself Page One indirectly ended Rosita's career, while you'll be able to bounce back without a mark?"

Colleen laughed. "If I had any talent for self-reflection, I would have quit this business long ago."

There was one person who would care. Two, possibly-Tess felt close enough to Sterling to know he would be interested in the truth, even if he couldn't change anything that had happened. But it didn't seem particularly urgent that she tell him. He was a smart man. He probably knew how ruthless Colleen was, and how shrewd Lionel was, if not every specific detail of their various manipulations.

But there was someone else who really needed to know, or wanted to, someone she could tell without breaching the confidentiality clause. Tess allowed herself a catnap, then drove to the Beacon-Light's offices. Her pass was still good, although it didn't matter, as the security system was on the fritz again. The security guard had simply left the door propped open, then disappeared.

Even on a Sunday morning, system manager Dorie Starnes was in her office, tapping away.

"You want something?" she asked, refusing to look up from the monitor. "I thought your work was done here. I've already cleaned out your computer files."

"It wasn't Rosita who pulled off the computer stunt that got the Wink story in the paper. Colleen Reganhart did it. She told me so herself, then told me she'd never admit it to anyone else. She's planning to leave here for another job, so I guess she figures she doesn't have anything to lose."

"Really?" The tempo of Dorie's tapping changed. It was more frenzied now, more purposeful. "Oh dear. I just accidentally erased what appeared to be Colleen Reganhart's résumé from her personal directory. And there goes her computer rolodex. Dear me. I do hope she had back-ups, but I have a feeling she never heeded all my warnings about securing files. Aw, wouldn't you know? I printed out all her messages by mistake, including some from Guy Whitman. ‘Doggie style?' I don't know what that could be about. Oh, and I printed their messages out on every darn printer in the building, too. They'll probably get mixed up in the daily budgets." She shook her head in mock disappointment. "Dorie, Dorie, Dorie, you are such a butterfingers."

So Whitman was Mr. Half-and-Half. "How long have they been having an affair?"

"Off and on since she came here. Every now and then, she catches him sniffing around someone else and they break up in a flurry of e-mail. But he always comes back. He has to-she's the boss."

"Was he sleeping with Rosita, too? She alluded to some impropriety when they fired her, and Colleen assumed it was Whitman."

"What do you think I do, spend my entire day spying on people?"

"Exactly. Especially if you suspect someone of messing around with your precious system. I bet you turned Rosita's files inside out, looking for clues."

"Touché." Dorie's pronunciation was flawless this time. "But if Rosita was carrying on with Guy, she didn't leave a trail. She was pretty cagey all around, I admit. I erased her electronic files after they fired her Friday. They were indecipherable-no names, no phone numbers. I couldn't make heads or tails of 'em. And there's nothing to retrieve from the hard drive, not that I can find."

"I guess when you're making it up, it's better to keep things a little vague. Are there still copies of her notes in the system?"

"Our procedures clearly state that stuff goes to the trash. It's long gone. Why would you want to see them, anyway?"

"Curious, I guess. I'd like to know if she really did have any leads on Wink's death, or if she was backpedaling to save her job."

Dorie reached into the collar of her Ravens sweatshirt and pulled out a long chain with a small key on the end, which she used to unlock the bottom file cabinet. Tess glimpsed dozens of manila folders, bursting with documents. Dorie pulled one out, then slammed the drawer shut.

"I made printouts," she said. "Force of habit. If they ever come for me, I'll know how to keep my job."

"I didn't know they taught blackmail at Merganthaler Vo-Tech."

"Let's just say I acquired some real-life skills that I wouldn't trade for a Harvard MBA."

Tess handed Dorie one of her business cards. "Let's keep in touch. I have a feeling you might have skills that might come in handy."

Dorie scanned the card into her computer, then tore it into fourths and dropped it in the wastebasket.

"Paper is so dangerous," she explained.

Chapter 27

Rosita's notes were virtually indecipherable. She had assigned numbers to people-Wink was obviously "#1," the rest a toss-up, although "#2" was someone close to him, someone who, judging from Rosita's notes, she suspected of killing him. And she had made a plausible case for homicide, arranging and rearranging the known facts of the case until a scenario emerged: Wink, drunk and then drugged by someone he knew, had been placed in the car when he passed out. The problem was, Rosita had made an even more plausible case for herself as a pathological liar. How could Tess trust anything she said, even in her private, coded notes?

"Garage door locked," Rosita had written. "But was door from garage to mud room locked? If number 2 had dragged number 1 to car from house, number 2 could have left through house. Ask cops about drag marks. Burglar alarm on? Ask number 3 who has keys to house. Ask the M.E. if it's possible to know whether number 1 was unconscious before carbon monoxide kicked in. Check enrollment records."

Enrollment records? Rosita had lost her completely. But perhaps Rosita was lost, too, for she hadn't been able to take these electronic files with her when she left. If Tess offered her the printouts, would she break the code in exchange? It was worth a try. If Rosita was working on something legitimate, it would be nice to pass the information along to Feeney as a peace offering, even if neither of them had started the war between them. Perhaps it was time for another surprise visit to Rosita's.

Cutting through downtown and heading uptown on Charles Street, she noticed people streaming out of churches, palm fronds in hand. How could it be Palm Sunday beneath these leaden skies? A lot of Easter hats and outfits were going to be wasted if the weather didn't improve markedly over the next week. No matter the weather, it was a torturous season for Tess. April meant the return of rowing, and it was always a struggle to readjust to a 5:30 A.M. alarm, especially after daylight savings stole yet another hour. Worse, this time of year meant putting in appearances at both the Monaghans' Easter Sunday dinner and the Weinsteins' Seder, with little time for recovery in between. April was the cruelest month.

At Rosita's apartment building, it was no trick to once again blend in with a group of residents, allowing them to carry her through the security door and into the elevator. On the eighteenth floor, she knocked-politely at first, then a sharp rap, and finally an out-and-out pounding. No response. Tess tried the door and it swung open. Wonderful. Maybe Rosita was down in the basement laundry room, or making a quick run for Sunday papers at the deli across the street. She'd just take a quick look around.

The apartment hadn't changed, with the exception of a pizza box and an empty Chardonnay bottle on the kitchen counter. Same impersonal air, same Kit-Kat Klock keeping time. Tess looked around, her gaze settling again on the pizza box. She couldn't help herself-she loved cold pizza and she hadn't eaten anything since the Mint Milanos at Colleen's apartment. She looked at the side of the box, trying to figure out which pizzeria it had come from, then flicked open the grease-spotted lid. Sausage, her favorite. She picked off one of the nubbly pieces, popped it in her mouth. Yech. Turkey sausage. What an aberration. What an oxymoron-healthful sausage, low-fat fat. You should do things full out, Tess always reasoned. Hedging, trying to have it both ways, was what got you into trouble. She'd have to share this bit of wisdom with Rosita.