"The waitress says another customer opened your shirt that night," said Coffey. "You were wearing a bulletproof vest. That suggests another scenario for – "

"I always wear the vest. I get death threats. Ask the damn FBI!"

"Funny you should mention that," said Janos. "An agent named Hennessey called to tell us that he was assigned to your security detail. But you went out of your way to lose him last night. You wore a disguise and hired an impersonator to send him off in another direction."

Coffey smiled and shrugged. "So you can see why the feds don't exactly help your case."

The handcuff locks clicked shut.

"Ask Riker. He was with me."

Jack Coffey shook his head. "Not when MacPherson was killed. But even if you had a real tight alibi, it wouldn't help. You see, Janos misspoke. The charge is conspiracy to murder. You conspired with the Reaper – and your fans." He turned to look at Randy. "This one, for instance."

Zachary's eyes were rounding and his voice was louder, yelling, "You can't do this to me! I've got rights!" He sucked in his breath, then said more calmly, "Ask the damn ACLU. The law is on my side."

"Yeah, well, that was back in Chicago," said Coffey. "In New York City, we like to make up the rules as we go along. You and your fans aided and abetted a serial killer."

Young Randy had thus far been still and quiet in the rapt attention of one viewing this live action on television. He must have recognized himself in a criminal mention, for now he stood up and held out both of his hands, happily awaiting his turn to be manacled by Detective Janos – just like Zachary.

"No, not you," said Coffey to the youngster. "Morons are excused."

Randy nodded and smiled.

"Just kidding." Jack Coffey unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his own belt and did the honors himself, saying, "Randy, remember that card you signed? You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you can't afford – Randy? Pay attention. This is the important stuff."

Charles Butler had a formal dining area, a waste of space in his opinion. Dinner guests invariably gravitated toward the kitchen, a warm and spacious room with rich ochre walls racked with spices and utensils that only a gourmet cook could identify. A red-checked tablecloth and a Vivaldi concerto created the atmosphere of an intimate bistro.

Mallory stood by the door, spying on Riker and Johanna Apollo in the front room. Charles left a pot of sauce to bubble on the stove and placed a glass of red wine in her hand. "So it's not working out quite the way you planned."

"No," she said. "Riker's not asking her the right questions."

"You mean he's not treating the woman like a criminal? Well, what a damn shame." Indeed, Riker was not behaving like a detective tonight, but more like a man in love. Charles knew all the symptoms. Obviously, Mallory did not.

She set down her wineglass and picked up a stack of dinner plates. He had thought it best to give her the chore of setting the table, since she would have rearranged anyone else's work. As she laid down the plates, napkins and silverware, he needed no ruler to tell him that every item was precisely one inch from the edge of the table.

He turned back to the stove and his task of stirring sauce. "Perhaps it was a mistake to expect Riker to work this out on his own." Oh, not likely that she would ever agree with that idea.

"Maybe you're right," she said.

And Charles lost his spoon at the bottom of the pot.

"He's too close to that woman." Mallory straightened the four chairs, then stepped back to survey her work, as if there might be a chance in hell that those chairs were not perfectly aligned with the table. "Riker's afraid to ask a question that might incriminate the doctor."

"In what crime?"

"She's holding out on me."

Oh, that crime. Well, from time to time, that would incriminate everyone Mallory knew. So the situation was not so serious after all, and he had hopes of getting through this dinner party without serious carnage. After retrieving his sauce spoon, Charles opened the oven, and the aroma of fowl roasting in its juices filled the room, mingling with that of garlic bread and the wine sauce. "Riker and the doctor look like they've put in a very long day. Perhaps we could put this business aside for the night."

"Don't you wonder how a smart woman could go along with that insane jury verdict?" Done with the table, hands on hips, she turned to face him. "You read the trial transcript. You know it wasn't an honest verdict."

"But Riker never read that transcript. He's taking the lady on faith."

"Faith? I'm talking about hard, cold facts. There's no way – "

"Mallory, if Riker set fire to a school bus full of nuns and children, then pushed it off a cliff, I'd have to assume that the nuns and children had it coming to them. That's faith."

She grappled with this for a moment, then rallied with a better shot. "People are dying," she said, as if he might need that reminder. "I need to know if Dr. Apollo kept in touch with MacPherson. If she did, then she probably knows where the other juror is hiding."

"Nothing easier." He picked up an open bottle of red and led the way back to his front room, where Johanna Apollo stood by the far wall, admiring an original painting by Rothko while Riker admired her.

Seen from the back, the woman's deformity was hidden by her long cascade of dark hair; it was more apparent when she turned in profile, allowing Charles to refill her wineglass. He knew that Riker was seeing a different image of the doctor. From the detective's point of view, the lady was without blemish, her ordinary face without peer. And from Charles's perspective, Riker had unexpected good taste in women, opting for intelligence and large brown eyes with a remarkable depth that appeared to see all the way to the soul – the eyes of a healer. The wine had called out his poetic bent, and he carried it further, likening her to a bouquet of roses, though her floral perfume was discreet. Her warmth and presence filled the room as the scent of flowers would do.

Mallory appeared, and the flowers – shuddering – closed. "My condolences," said Charles, "on the death of your friend Mr. MacPherson. Did you keep in touch with him after the trial?"

Dr. Apollo nodded.

Charles turned to Mallory, who was less than impressed with his interrogation style. She tipped back her glass. Riker, contrary to habit, had hardly touched his wine. Odd, that. And Mallory, with all her control issues, was drinking more than her careful allotment of precisely one ounce of alcohol. This promised to be an interesting evening.

Dr. Apollo excused herself and headed toward the kitchen. Of course, everyone wound up there eventually. However, given the example of the past hour, Mallory's mere presence was motivation enough for the doctor to quit any room. Charles topped off Riker's glass, then returned to the kitchen, where he found his dinner guest shredding lettuce for the salad. The doctor raised her face to his and smiled. Charles's own loony smile always had that happy effect on people.

They worked side by side, chopping vegetables in companionable silence, and then he took up Riker's cause, the complaint that her hotel was not safe. "My house is your house. I have two guest rooms, more than enough space, I assure you."

"Thank you, but it's better if I go back to the Chelsea."

"It's perfectly quiet here," he said. "Triple-pane windows, very thick walls. You could set off a cannon and never disturb the neighbors. So if you want some late-night distraction, music or television – "

"I'm just looking forward to a good night's sleep."

"I'm told you have a cat. If you're concerned about him, that's not a problem. I get along quite well with animals."

"No," she said. "Mugs isn't good with strangers. He's happier in familiar surroundings. We'll both be better off in the hotel."