FOUR

With greater anxiety, Craig paced his one-room apartment. In the background, he barely heard the swelling voices of an opera, Puccini's Turandot, that by habit he played when he was nervous. Phone, Tess! Please! If you're all right, for the love of God, phone!

But the longer he waited, the more despondent he became. Something was very wrong.

He frowned at his watch and realized that he should have been at the office an hour ago. Immediately, in mid-stride he froze, struck by a sudden thought. The office? Maybe Tess figures that's where I am. Maybe that's where she'll try to get in touch with me.

If she tries to get in touch with me.

If she wasn't killed in the fire and her body hasn't been found yet.

No, don't think like that! She's all right! She's got to be all right!

Craig grabbed the phone and pressed the numbers for his office. Impatient, he heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.

Tony, it's Bill. I-'

'Jesus and Joseph. Finally. Miracles never fail. Where the hell have you been? The phones keep ringing. We've got eight new cases, and the captain's grumbling about everybody goofing off.'

'I promise, Tony. I'll be there soon. Listen, have I had any messages?'

'Plenty.'

Craig's heartbeat sped. 'Is there anything from Tess Drake?'

'Just a minute. I'll check. But… Who's that woman shrieking in the background? Opera? Since when did you become Italian?'

'The messages, Tony. Check the messages.'

'Yeah, okay, here, I've got them. Give me a chance to… Bailey. Hopkins. Nope. Nothing from any Tess Drake.'

Craig slumped against the kitchen counter.

'Speaking of messages, the captain got a call a while ago from the police in Alexandria, Virginia. They claim you phoned them. Something about a fire. They say you sounded a little strange. What's going on?'

'I'll explain when I get to the office. Tony, this is important. If Tess Drake calls for me, make sure you get a number where I can reach her.'

Craig hung up the phone. While Pavarotti's rich voice soared toward the peak of an aria, Craig stared at the kitchen counter. With a curse, he roused himself into motion, turned on the answering machine, and shut off the stereo. Compelled, he snapped his holstered revolver to his belt, put on his suitcoat, and hurried from his apartment, locking its two deadbolts behind him.

As Craig rushed up the ten steps from his basement apartment and emerged on the noisy street, the morning smog irritated his throat and made him cough again. Near a row of garbage cans, he stopped at the curb, didn't see a taxi, hunched his shoulders in frustration, and broke into an awkward jog toward Seventh Avenue. The sudden effort made him breathe heavily.

Tess is right, he thought. I let myself get out of shape. I need to start exercising.

Tess. The urgent thought of her triggered a flood of adrenaline into his stomach. Sweating, he jogged faster, desperate to find a taxi.

FIVE

Behind him, near Craig's apartment on Bleecker Street, two nondescript men bent down from the curb to examine the engine of a disabled car. When they noticed Craig start to jog toward Seventh Avenue, they slammed down the engine's hood, scrambled into the small Japanese vehicle, made a tight U-turn, and hurried to follow him.

Farther down the street, inside a van the sides of which were marked with perfect copies of telephone-company insignia, a somber man picked up a cellular phone while his equally somber partner adjusted dials on a monitor and continued to listen to earphones.

The first man, aware that cellular broadcasts were capable of being monitored, spoke indirectly.

'Our friend has left the ballpark. A few teammates are going with him. The opposite team? It seems they're not ready to play. At least, we haven't seen them. But our catcher is worried about his girl friend's health. He hoped she'd phone him at the clubhouse. She didn't. He believes she might call him at his office. Meanwhile we've got some time, provided the opposite team doesn't arrive. So we'll do our catcher a favor and hang around the clubhouse, just in case his girl friend finally does call and wants to leave a message. I take for granted that someone will be at his office? Good. After all, if his girl friend needs help, I'd hate for our catcher to be alone.'

SIX

Appallingly, the water in the tub was so filmed with soot that Tess had to drain it, rinse the tub, and refill it. Even after her second bath, she still didn't feel clean and finally had to use the shower, washing her tangled hair three times.

She couldn't find a blow dryer, so she simply combed her hair, which thank God was short and easy to manage, and which now was finally blond again, not blackened with ashes.

She used the first-aid kit to put antibiotic cream on her burns. They didn't seem deep, although clear liquid seeped from them and they'd begun stinging again. She was tempted to bandage them, but she'd read somewhere that it was important for air to get at burns as long as they weren't serious, and she hoped these weren't. At the moment, though, her burns and bruises were the least of her problems.

Mrs Caudill had knocked on the bathroom door and explained that she'd laid out some clothes in the adjoining bedroom. Tess wrapped a towel around her breasts and hips, then stepped through the door to the right, finding socks, underwear, jeans, and a short-sleeved, burgundy blouse on the bed. She hurried to dress, discarding the bra. It felt good to have clean clothes against clean skin. They fit her almost perfectly. But the tennis shoes that Mrs Caudill had found were another matter – a half-size too small. Tess had to use the grimy sneakers she'd hoped to discard. Grabbing her burlap purse, which was grimy as well, gave off smoke fumes, and would have to be replaced, she decided she'd better get downstairs before Mrs Caudill changed her mind about calling the police.

In the foyer, she heard noises from the dining room and entered to find a maid placing a silver tray of toast, jam, bacon, scrambled eggs, and orange juice at the end of the long, oak table. Steam rose from a coffee pot.

Mrs Caudill had changed from her housecoat to a dress and sat near the end of the table, the Washington Post before her. Seeing Tess come in, she smiled, although her eyes were dim with melancholy. 'Well, you certainly do look better.' With effort, Mrs Caudill straightened. 'I hope you don't mind. I don't know your tastes, but I took the liberty of having Rose-Marie prepare you a breakfast. You must be famished.'

The aroma of the food made Tess's stomach growl. She hadn't realized until now how weak she felt from hunger. In place of supper last night, all she'd had to eat was the liver pate her mother liked.

Her mother. With renewed force, grief swept through her, chilling, numbing. She resisted the tears that came to her eyes, knowing that, given the stress ahead of her, she didn't dare lose control. It seemed impossible… She still wasn't able to adjust to… Had trouble believing… Refused to admit that her mother was dead.

It couldn't be!

Needing all her discipline, Tess somehow managed to return Mrs Caudill's smile. 'Thank you. You've been too kind.'

'Spare me the compliments, Tess. You can thank me by eating everything on your plate. Today will be, excuse my French, an s.o.b. You're going to need all your strength.'

'I'm afraid you're right.' Tess sat at the table, unfolded her napkin, and with a trembling hand picked up a gleaming silver fork. She amazed herself by how quickly she devoured the meal, even though this was far from her usual breakfast. She'd long ago restricted eggs (too much cholesterol) and bacon (carcinogenic nitrates) from her diet.