The lights of the city streaked by as Dan rocketed south- past the RCA Building and Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library-giving us a whiplash tour of midtown Manhattan. Racing through more than a few red lights, and still honking to clear a path through the traffic, he kept his jaw clenched tight and his demon eyes fixed on the road ahead. Careening past the Empire State Building, Dan hooked a hard right on 34th Street, tore past Macy’s, then swung left on Seventh Avenue, whizzing by the enormous stone structure of Pennsylvania Station-with its marble columns and colossal stone eagles-like a cab driver out of hell. I wished I could jump out of the car and hop a train to New Jersey.

When we reached the Village, we were all still in one piece. (Physically, I mean. I had lost my sanity somewhere along the way, but I don’t think it showed.) Dan hung a left on Bleecker, shot down the narrow street, and brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb across from our building.

“Get out,” he said, still staring straight ahead with his jaw in knots. It was an order, not a suggestion.

I couldn’t move. My body was locked in position and my fingers were frozen-clawlike-to the edge of the seat.

Abby, on the other hand, hopped out of the car and flounced gaily across the street. “Good night, all!” she shouted, turning to wave at us through the car window. “Jimmy’s here!” She gestured toward the shadowy figure sitting on the stoop, then-tucking my (or, rather, her) chinchilla jacket under one arm and grinning like a darn fool-reached out and pulled the bearded Birmingham to his feet. Otto was hanging on to Jimmy’s arm for dear life. (I knew how the little dog felt.) “We’re going upstairs now, okay?” Abby called out. “I’ll catch you later!” She blew me a kiss and unlocked the front door. Then the Three Musketeers disappeared in the stairwell.

Dan and I sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a millisecond. Finally, he spoke. “I said get out,” he growled. “Go upstairs and lock yourself in. Don’t open the door to anybody.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I was in a real panic now. Dan looked so mad I felt that if he left, he’d never come back.

“No. I have some unfinished business to attend to.” His profile was set in stone, but in the yellowish light from the street lamp, I could see that a vein in his temple was throbbing.

“But you’ve got to let me explain!” I cried.

“What’s to explain?” He turned and aimed his merciless black gaze at me. “The writing’s on the goddamn wall. You broke your promise to me again. You’re working on another unsolved murder story, and you’re in a shitload of danger because of it. That’s all I need to know.”

“No, it’s not!” I screamed, kicking my foot against the dashboard. (I was a little upset myself.) “There’s a lot more you need to know, Dan, and I have to tell you about it now! Please come upstairs with me and listen to what I have to say. It’s a long and complicated story, but it’s really, really important! A lot of lives and reputations are at stake.”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you lied to me and made a complete mess of everything.”

“What?” Now I was hurt as well as angry. (I mean, is that any way for a boyfriend to talk after you’ve just saved his life?)

“You heard me,” Dan said. “Your lying has compromised my current murder investigation and put both of us in grave danger.”

“Murder investigation?” I shrieked. (I’d been doing a lot of that lately.) “You said you were investigating the mob war!”

“And so I am!” he raged, spitting his furious words in my face. “The mob war and the hideous murder of a young woman that resulted from it.”

My heart came to a sudden standstill. Was he talking about-?

“Don’t look so shocked, Paige,” he sputtered. “Do you really think you’re the only person in the whole damn city who’s been trying to find out who killed Virginia Pratt?”

I was speechless-or, to put it more precisely, struck dumb. My mouth was hanging open, but no sound was coming out of it.

“Go upstairs,” Dan said, leaning across me and opening the passenger door from the inside. “Right this minute! Lock your doors and windows and don’t go anywhere or do anything until you hear from me. I mean it, Paige!” he yelled, practically shoving me out onto the sidewalk. “I’ve got to leave now. Go upstairs and stay there!”

“Okay,” I said, standing on the pavement in shock as Dan jerked the car door closed. Then I pulled his trench coat tighter around my shivering shoulders and slunk across the street like an anxious alley cat. As I opened the door to my building and ducked into the stairwell, I heard Dan peel away from the curb and blast down Bleecker, burning rubber all the way.

Chapter 31

HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE FEELING THAT YOU’VE just been shot out of a cannon? That you’re hurtling through the air like a big metal ball-or a curled-up clown with orange hair and a red nose? Then you know exactly how I felt as I crashed into my apartment, dropped my purse and Dan’s coat onto the living room chair, kicked Abby’s stilettos into a corner, and fell-with a heavy thud-into a fetus-shaped lump on the couch. And you also understand why I was trembling in fear, and sick with worry, and blubbering in so much confusion and self-pity that my bright red nose was dribbling all over my favorite Woolworth’s throw pillow.

Where had Dan zoomed off to? Would he be safe? Would I ever see him again? How on earth had he discovered that I was investigating another homicide? And how did he know it was the Virginia Pratt murder? And why was Dan involved in the case at all? The papers had said Detective Sergeant Casey O’Connor at the Midtown North Precinct was in charge. Dan was in Midtown South. And the two precincts were so competitive that they practically never joined forces. Something really strange was going on here!

Head swirling and pulse pounding, I bolted to an upright position, yanked off my clown wig, pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table near the phone, and blew my nose. I didn’t have time for a nervous breakdown! A potent mixture of curiosity and dread was surging through my system like an electrical current. All I could think about was digging up some answers to my many burning questions-and finding Melody’s murderer before he murdered Dan.

I was dying to talk to Jocelyn (aka Candy) again, but knowing she wouldn’t be home from her date for hours, I quickly ditched that idea. I figured Melody’s other good friend, Ethel (aka Brigitte), wouldn’t be home, either, but in a frenzy to take some kind of positive action, I decided to call her anyway. Jumping over to the bookcase and snatching Sabrina’s lavender list out of its hiding place in The Maltese Falcon, I returned to the couch, found Ethel’s number, and dialed it.

To my surprise, she answered.

“Hello, Ethel?” I said. “Ethel Maguire?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Paige Turner. I hope I didn’t wake you or your husband up. I’m sorry to call so late, but I-”

“That’s okay,” she broke in. “My husband’s sleeping soundly, and I just got home.”

“Were you out with a client?”

“I was with a client,” she sniffed, “but we didn’t go out.” I could tell from her tone that she found my question inane. “Look, I wasn’t asleep, Paige, but I am pretty tired. Is there something you need to talk to me about?”

“Just one thing,” I said. “I happened to run into Candy tonight, and she admitted that she’s been seeing two of Melody’s regular clients-Sam Hogarth and Tony Corona-on her own, without Sabrina’s knowledge. Did you know anything about that?”

“No!” Ethel exclaimed, with an audible intake of air. “I can’t believe she would do something like that.”