"I thought you were a shrink." The young woman stared at the prescriptions, dubious now, maybe wondering if this was illegal.

"I was a psychiatrist," said Johanna, "so I also have a medical degree. I'm sorry about the cat. I did try to warn you about the – "

"Can't you do anything for him? An operation or something?" "There was an operation. A veterinary surgeon severed the damaged nerve so Mugs wouldn't feel the pain anymore. But he'd lived with it for too long before I found him. Now he only feels the phantom nerve, but the pain is very real to Mugs. The cat's quite insane. Perfect pet for a shrink, wouldn't you say?" "And you still keep him."

Johanna suspected that this cat lover's approval was genuine. "Yes, I keep him. No one else would have him." She turned to leave the bathroom.

"Not yet, Dr. Apollo." The policewoman handed her a second warrant, this one for a personal search. "Sorry," she said, as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves.

So this would be a very personal search. Johanna could even guess the order of violation: first oral, then vaginal, then anal.

You'll have to remove all your clothes." The officer touched the collar or the denim jacket. "I remember this." She looked down at Johanna's legs. And those are the same jeans you wore this morning, right?" Johanna nodded as she removed her jacket, then pulled her sweatshirt over her head, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. The deformity was more grotesque in the fleshy knotted muscles curving into a hump. The younger woman turned away, not enjoying this moment. Johanna removed her jeans, eyes fixed on the floor. She felt the heat rising in her face, the deep red flush of humiliation, as she unhooked her bra.

"You can keep the underwear on." The policewoman removed her gloves in a giveaway act of compassion. There would be no cavity search today.

"Thank you," said Johanna.

The officer gave her a curt nod. "But if anyone asks – "

"Understood. I'll tell them you were very thorough."

"I don't know why that detective even ordered it. Flynn says we're only looking for documents. Letters, records."

Johanna nodded. These were the sort of things she had destroyed on the day when Timothy Kidd was murdered.

The policewoman searched a pocket of Johanna's jacket where the bundle of letters had recently rested. All she found was spare change, a subway token, and some folding money, all of which she handed to Johanna. "We're taking your clothes with us. You'll get a receipt for everything." She nodded toward the robe hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. "Why don't you put that on?"

Johanna wrapped the robe about her and watched her work boots and socks disappear into a plastic bag. Barefoot, she followed the policewoman into the front room, where Mugs was in the hissing mode, and men were testing couch cushions for suspicious lumps. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied on the floor. One man had climbed on top of a table, scratching the finish with his shoes as he reached up to unscrew the overhead light fixture.

Detective Flynn stood by the armoire desk, where financial records had been piled to cure its recently raided appearance. His low whistle gave away the discovery of her stock portfolio and an income in the highest tax bracket. Now there would be questions about her most recent employment and the unhealthy interest in crime scenes. She was a woman of means. No need to work for her living. And she lived in a hotel suite, while these people rented small, cramped apartments on the wages of civil servants.

Yes, she would have a great deal to answer for.

The policewoman guided her to a kitchen chair that had been dragged into the front room for no other purpose than to deny her comfort. Johanna sat down on the hard wood, wrapping the robe closer about her person. The searchers circled around her in their travels, never making eye contact, treating her as a floor lamp or an incidental table in their way. Detective Flynn pulled up another straight-back chair, though his was padded with embroidered upholstery. He turned it around to straddle it and rest his arms on the back. He seemed so relaxed while Johanna shifted in her own chair. She understood why he had requested a full cavity search, a probe of every orifice in her body. That kind of trauma was most efficient in tearing down a suspect's ego. She also realized that it was nothing personal.

This time it would be different from her interview with the Chicago police. This New York detective would not invite her to visit his station house. The hotel room was an excellent choice for an interrogation, no lawyers around to prevent them from stripping her to a flimsy bathrobe and rattling her with ongoing violations of her life, her personal letters and -

The uniformed officer stood in the narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. She sought out Johanna's eyes to beg some explanation for the child-size pair of dancing shoes, black patent leather with metal cleats at toe and heel. The concept of a tap-dancing hunchback was too difficult for this young woman.

Johanna only shrugged to say, Old dreams. I guess you had them, too.

She had been eleven years old when thoracic kyphosis had become so apparent that it could no longer be put off to bad posture. Dancing classes had been cancelled for the remainder of childhood. It was too hard to tap dance in a heavy brace that could not fly with her across the long, mirrored classroom, and no one could do the Buffalo Shuffle in body armor.

The policewoman put the lid on the old shoe-box dream and returned to the bedroom to continue the search.

Johanna faced Detective Flynn. Everything about this man, his posture and his eyes, informed her that his power was unlimited, all but saying to her, Give up – you're lost – you're mine. She shrank in size. She had no substance in this room. It belonged to them now, the searchers. She was the visitor here.

A man with plastic gloves was examining the drawer of wine bottles, and she ceased to breathe for a moment. Through the open bathroom door, she could hear the sounds of the medicine cabinet being ransacked. They would find all the pain medication, the pills to help her sleep and others to keep her awake. What would they make of the large store of pet tranquilizers? They would note her brand of toothpaste, examine the underwear in her hamper, attracted by spots of blood, and follow the scent of menstruation to the tampon in the trash basket. Would the searcher be delighted with this find – this perfect sample of DNA? Would he fold this treasure away in an evidence bag?

And what would the tag say? Lady on the rag?

Her toes curled as her bare feet drew back under the chair. "What do you want?"

Flynn was looking past her, as if the pictures on the wall were more interesting to him. "Most people go their whole lives and never stumble on a murder victim." He turned his eyes to hers, and his voice doubled in volume. "You found two dead bodies, lady! An FBI agent back in Chicago and that poor homeless bum this morning." He leaned far forward, startling her, and she recoiled. "That would've been enough to get my attention, but both of 'em had their throats slit. The Chicago cops tell me you made a little bonfire in your office wastebasket before you called 911. You destroyed all your patient records. And all the while, there's a man bleeding to death in your waiting room."

"He was dead when I found him."

"You're pretty cool under pressure, Doctor."

No, she was more vulnerable now.

"So, Dr. Apollo, you wanna cut the crap and – "

"Sir?" A man in uniform waited for the detective to acknowledge him before he said, "You have to stop the interview. There's a guy downstairs in the lobby. He says – "

"Hold it!" Flynn put up one hand in the manner of a traffic cop, and the other man fell silent. The detective turned on Johanna. "You called a damn lawyer, didn't you? You knew we were coming. Who tipped you off, Doctor? Was it Riker?" Not waiting for an answer, he fired his next question at the man in uniform. "Chase down that bastard Riker and drag him in. Now!"