"If that's the case, I bet I can tell you who it was."

"Who? David Wade?"

Tillie looked deflated that she'd thought of that angle, too, but he pressed on. "That Keppler girl looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but I bet she'd lie for Wade without blinking those baby blue eyes."

"When you've finished with Szabo, you might stop by Vanderlyn and ask Keppler where David Wade was yesterday morning; see what her reaction is. And while you're at it," Sigrid added, "better see the dean of-" She had to search through her notes to find the right title. Tillie nodded thoughtfully as she explained what she wanted to know.

For the next couple of hours Sigrid worked steadily at the accumulation of reports on her desk. Gradually the pile dwindled, disappeared; all except for a media query, which she carried to Captain McKinnon. "Do I have to keep doing these interviews?" she asked sourly, remembering Andrea Ross's gibe about being the Police

Departments's showcase model.

McKinnon looked at the innocuously worded request. It was from a women's magazine, one slanted toward a readership of women who, if they held jobs, worked more to supplement the family's income than to carve out careers of their own. He tossed it back to her.

"What's wrong, Harald? You ashamed to talk about police work?"

"Of course not! If that's what they'd ask me about," Sigrid said tightly, "but they won't. They'll ask about my personal life-you know, does-my-husband-mind-my-being-a-policewoman sort of thing-and they'll probably think it a waste of time when they find out I haven't got a husband. Anyway, aren't there enough women police officers around that we're not a novelty any longer?"

"Apparently not," McKinnon said heartlessly. "I don't see the problem, Harald. You've conducted enough interviews to know how to steer one."

He held up his hand to forestall further protest. "Look upon it as building up Brownie points for the department. Public relations. The commissioner appreciates good public relations."

Sigrid marched back to her small office grimly and telephoned the magazine. Upon being connected with the junior editor who'd requested the interview, she summoned a cordial tone to her voice and expressed her willingness to talk. "Unfortunately my only free time is tomorrow morning at eight A.M."

Silence from the editor, then timidly, "What about lunch, Lieutenant? On us, of course."

"Sorry," Sigrid said. "I have a previous engagement."

"Well, we're not in that big a hurry. What about day after tomorrow. We could meet-"

"I'm afraid I'm booked rather solid," Sigrid said firmly. "Perhaps you'd have better luck with someone in a different department. Now Sergeant Louella Dickerson over in Missing Persons…"

"Oh, no, Lieutenant. We're all so intrigued with the idea of a woman chasing down murderers, almost a female Kojak. Eight o'clock? I'll certainly be there."

She sounds like a gusher, Sigrid thought pessimistically. She glanced at her watch.

Ten-forty and she was due in court at eleven.

It was an appearance connected with a case completed two months before. Routine, but time-consuming. Despite the district attorney's previous promise, she wasn't called to testify until after lunch. She wasn't on the stand very long. The defense lawyer had come up against her before, so he didn't try the court's patience by attempting to confuse her in cross-examination. The last time he'd tried that, her cool dignity and unruffled professionalism had convinced a teetering jury of his client's guilt.

She was free a little after two and decided against going back to the office just then. Somehow facing another round of reports seemed unbearably dreary, though she would have denied any touch of spring fever.

Last night's rain had scoured sky, air and pavements, and in the afternoon sunlight the sky looked bluer than usual, buildings seemed more sharply edged, and Central Park 's spring foliage shone greener. These things Sigrid barely noticed as she drove uptown. A short while later she parked by a fire hydrant almost in front of Riley Quinn's brownstone and flipped down her sun visor to reveal a discreet notice that she was on official police business. As she stepped from her car, what her practical mind did appreciate about last night's rain was that it had washed the sidewalks so clean that one didn't have to watch where one was putting every step-a true boon considering the city's canine population.

She crossed the street, lightly dodging a chauffeured limousine. There was a spray of white carnations tied with black satin ribbons on the gleaming oak door, a homely old-fashioned symbol that Sigrid hadn't expected of Riley Quinn's wife.

The woman who answered the doorbell was short and stout with iron gray hair, which ballooned improbably around a plain face made even plainer by tear-blotched skin and swollen red eyes. Hers was the first sign of real grief for Quinn's death that Sigrid had seen.

The woman seemed to assume that Sigrid had called to offer condolences. "I'm Millie Minton," she said, taking Sigrid's hand in hers and pressing it sadly as she drew Sigrid across the threshhold,

"Riley's sister. It's so good of you to come."

As tactfully as possible Sigrid retrieved her hand and identified herself.

"Police!" Mrs. Minton's eyes widened, then flooded with fresh tears. "Oh, poor Riley! How could anyone have killed him? It's just dreadful. What a horrible way to die!"

"I'm sorry to intrude," Sigrid said uncomfortably, "but if I might speak to Mrs. Quinn?"

"Yes, of course, Lieutenant." She blew her nose again with a sodden handkerchief and smoothed her black dress down over well-corseted hips as she turned.

Beyond the grieving woman the living room was crowded with earlier callers who had lapsed into discreet conversation. It needed only the tinkle of ice against glass to be mistaken for a well-bred cocktail gathering, though none of last night's bottles and glasses were visible this afternoon. Yet there was soft laughter from one group, which quickly hushed when Mrs. Minton led Sigrid past the open archway. Sigrid found herself scanning the gathering for a tall white-haired figure and was annoyed with herself when she realized what she was doing.

Across the room Jake Saxer flushed and turned away as the full force of her scowl fell on him. Sigrid had been unaware of him until his movement of withdrawal, and her eyes narrowed. Why was he afraid to meet her gaze, she wondered, unconscious of her formidable frown.

Mrs. Minton opened the door to Quinn's study at the end of the wide entrance hall. "I'll tell Doris you're here," she said.

Left alone, Sigrid circled the leather-bound study with interest. Riley Quinn's domain was more or less what she would have expected-pretentiously academic, almost a stage set, yet showing signs of serious work in that rear wall of counters and files. Some partially open file drawers struck a jarring note in the otherwise precisely ordered room. Had Quinn removed a folder hurriedly on his way to Vanderlyn yesterday morning? And what had he used that crowbar for? Surely it was an odd tool to find standing in the corner of a scholar's study? Visions of monumentally stuck drawers were put aside for the time being, however, as the door opened and Doris Quinn entered.

She was followed by her uncle, courtly and dapper in a gray silk suit and dark red tie. J. Duncan Sylvester was completely bald and had small pointed ears and thick white eyebrows, which he used for emphasis. He looked like an intelligent, wizened elf, and he raised one tufted eyebrow in surprise now. Riley's sister had merely said that a police officer wished to see Doris; she hadn't specified that the lieutenant was female. The publisher of The Loaded Brush was a thoroughgoing chauvinist where his niece was concerned, and he'd accompanied her to keep some hard-nosed male officer from bullying her. Fleetingly he wondered if he might not be superfluous in this interview.