A noise made him jerk him eyes toward the left. With a flinch, fear burning his stomach, he saw one of the French doors that led to the patio swing open. Three men and a woman stepped in. All were in their thirties, trim, good-looking, dressed in dark jogging clothes.

Page lurched to his feet. His years of being an executive had trained him never to show weakness but to react aggressively when feeling threatened. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? Get out of here!'

They shut the door.

'I said, get out!'

They smiled. The woman and one of the men had their hands behind their back.

Page fought to control and conceal his fright. They looked too cleancut to be burglars, not that he knew what burglars would look like, but… Maybe they were…

'Damn it, if you're reporters, you've picked the wrong way to get an interview, and besides, I've stopped giving interviews!'

'We're not reporters,' the woman said.

'We don't have any questions,' one of the men said.

'I'm calling the police!'

'It won't do you any good,' another man said.

They approached him. The woman and one of the men continued to hold their hands behind their back.

Page grabbed the phone and tapped 911, suddenly realizing that the line was dead.

'See,' the third man said. 'It doesn't do any good.'

'I locked those doors! I turned on the security system! How did-?'

'We're handy with tools,' the first man said.

'Like these tools,' the woman said.

They brought their hands from behind their back.

Page opened his mouth, but terror choked his scream.

While two of the men grabbed Page's arms and forced him flat across the desk, the remaining man held up a railroad spike, and the woman swung a sledgehammer, driving the spike through Page's heart.

SEVENTEEN

'… impaled on a stack of blood-soaked documents that confidential sources indicate were statements that Harrison Page had been prepared to make at the hearing this morning.' The bespectacled television reporter paused somberly.

Appalled, Tess sat on a stool at the kitchen counter in her loft, watching the twelve-inch TV next to the microwave. The red numbers on the Radarange's digital clock said 8:03. She'd been trying to make herself eat breakfast – fruit salad, whole-wheat toast, and tea – but after yesterday's ordeal at the morgue and her discovery that Joseph was dead, she didn't have much appetite.

The reporter continued, 'In a further grotesque aftermath of the Tennessee toxic-gas disaster, the body of Billy Joe Bennett, foreman in charge of inspecting the section of the track where the derailment occurred, was found early this morning in a Memphis parking lot near the Mississippi River. Bennett had been under investigation for possible negligence due to alleged cocaine addiction.'

The TV image shifted from the reporter to a harshly lit videotape of stern policemen standing near a warehouse, staring down at something, a closeup of a garbage bag on the parking lot's asphalt, the bag filled with white powder, then a panning shot of a sheet-covered corpse being lifted on a gurney into an ambulance. Off-camera, the reporter explained the grisly means by which Bennett had been murdered.

With renewed pangs of grief, Tess was reminded of the brutal way in which Joseph had been murdered.

The reporter came back on the screen. 'Police speculate that Bennett and Page were killed for revenge by relatives of victims of the toxic-gas disaster.'

A commercial for disposable diapers interrupted the news. Tess rubbed her forehead, peered down at her breakfast, and felt even less hungry.

The phone rang, startling her while she rinsed out her teacup.

Who'd be calling this early? Troubled, she left the kitchen, walked to the section of the loft where the furniture was arranged to form a living room, and picked up the phone halfway through its third ring.

'Hello?'

The gravelly voice was so distinctive that the speaker didn't need to identify himself. This is Lieutenant Craig.'

Her fingers cramped around the phone.

'I apologize for calling at this hour,' Craig said, 'but I won't be in the office, and I wasn't sure I'd have a chance to phone you at work this morning – that's if you feel up to going to work.'

'Yes. I'm going.' Tess sat, dejected. 'I almost decided not to. But it doesn't do any good to brood. Maybe work will distract me.'

'Sometimes it helps to be with other people.'

'I'm not sure anything will help.' She slumped, weary. 'What can I do for you, Lieutenant?'

'I wanted to know when you take your lunch break.'

'Lunch? Why would-? I doubt I'll be eating lunch today. That's why you called? To invite me to lunch?'

'Not exactly. There's something I might want you to look at,' Craig said, 'and I figured if you were going to be free at a certain hour, we could make an appointment.'

Tess felt cold. 'Is this about Joseph's death?'

'Possibly.'

'You're holding back again.'

'This might be nothing, Tess. Really. I'd prefer not to talk about it until I'm sure. I don't want to upset you without a reason.'

'And you don't think I'm upset already? Okay, one o'clock. Can you pick me up outside my office building at one o'clock?'

'I'll make a point of it. Who knows? Maybe the meeting won't be necessary. That's what I mean. Don't think about it.'

'Sure. Don't think. What a great idea.'

EIGHTEEN

But Tess had many things to think about. She kept remembering Joseph's burned corpse and the dark contour of his body seared into the bricks at Carl Schurz Park. In the elevator at work, she shuddered, identifying it with Joseph, numbed that she'd never see him again.

At Earth Mother Magazine, she went immediately down the hall to Walter Trask's office and told him everything that had happened.

Trask frowned, more haggard than usual. He stood, came around his desk, and clasped her shoulders. I'm sorry, Tess. Honestly. More than I can say.'

'But who would have done that to him? Why?'

'I wish I had answers.' Trask hugged her. His features gray, he stepped back. 'But this is New York. Sometimes there aren't any answers. I'm reminded of the jogger who was raped and nearly killed by that marauding gang in Central Park. The kids who did it weren't raised in a slum. They came from middle-class families. Poverty can't be blamed for their behavior. It doesn't make sense, like too many other things.'

'But why would Joseph have been in Carl Schurz Park in the rain at three a.m.?'

'Tess, listen to me. You don't know anything about this man. You found him attractive, but he… This'll sound harsh. Nonetheless, it has to be said. When you mentioned that he hadn't given his employer his phone number and he used a mail service, I was worried. The man had secrets. Possibly his secrets caught up to him.'

With eerie clarity, Tess recalled what Joseph had told her in the delicatessen Friday afternoon. I have certain… let's call them obligations. I can't explain what they are or why I have to abide by them. You just have to trust and believe and accept.'

'Maybe. Maybe he did have secrets,' Tess said. 'But that doesn't mean the secrets were bad, and it doesn't mean I have to turn my back and pretend I never knew him.'

'Believe me, I sympathize.' Trask put an arm around her. 'Really. All I'm asking you to do is try to be objective. Protect your emotions.'

'Right now, the last thing I'm capable of being is objective,' Tess said.

'Look, perhaps you shouldn't have come into work today. Take a break. Give yourself a rest. Go to your health club, whatever relaxes you. We'll see how you feel tomorrow.'