“Hi, Vicki,” I said. “This is Phoebe. Phoebe Starr.” I would have told her my real name (since everybody else knew it), but I didn’t want to take the time to explain all my complicated reasons for having first used a fake one.

“Oh, hi, Phoebe,” she said. “I’m glad you called. I got that information you wanted.” Her rough, husky voice was music to my ears.

“Really?” I yelped, too stunned to let myself believe it. “You’ve got Gregory Smythe’s address and phone number?”

“Not his home address or phone,” she said apologetically. “Just his place of business. All of his Macy’s purchases were charged directly to his office.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Vicki! Any address and phone number will do. All I need is some way to get in touch with him. Hold on a sec! Let me get something to write with.” I dropped the phone down on the daybed and dashed to the kitchen table for a piece of typing paper and a pen. Then I bounded back to the living room, yanked the phone back up to my mouth, and cried, “Shoot!”

“He works at a place called Farnsworth Fiduciary,” Vicki reported. “The address is 647 Fifth Avenue, Suite 600, and the phone number is Oregon 6-8000. That’s all my friend could find in the files.”

“Well, that’s more than enough, Vicki!” I said, scribbling the info down and working to keep myself from squealing. “Please thank your friend for me.”

“I will,” she said, turning silent for a moment. “But I’m still not sure I should have gotten this information for you,” she went on. “I mean, how are you going to use it? You’re not going to give Mr. Smythe any grief, are you? He’s one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met, and if anything bad happens to him because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.” She sounded truly concerned.

“I’ll be very careful, Vicki,” I said. “And if it turns out Gregory Smythe had nothing to do with Judy’s murder, then he’ll get no trouble from me.”

“Can I have your word on that?”

“Of course.” My hand wasn’t on the Bible when I made this vow, but I felt sworn to it just the same. “And will you promise to call me if you think of anything else-anything at all-that might have some bearing on the murder?”

“Okay,” she said, sounding as hoarse as a high school cheerleader after the big game.

I gave Vicki my phone number and thanked her profusely, pledging to keep her informed of my progress in the case and to take her out to lunch just as soon as the holidays were over. Then I wished her a merry Christmas and hung up.

Half a heartbeat later I picked up the phone and dialed Dan’s office again.

It was 9:30 P.M.-prime crime time in the Midtown South Precinct-so I wasn’t at all surprised when they told me Dan wasn’t there. What I was, however, was devastated. I thought if I didn’t talk to Dan soon I would shrivel up in a ball and die. Can you believe that? I had seen the man just twenty-four hours ago-and he wasn’t even being nice to me at the time!-and here I was about to start bawling like a deserted wife (or, more precisely, like a colicky infant who had dropped her pacifier).

Help! Somebody save me!

I jumped to my feet and started pacing around the living room, taking lots of deep breaths, doing my best to take control of my preposterous emotions. And I might have achieved this worthy goal if I hadn’t already been in a full-blown dither about Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift and Gregory Smythe. And if Abby hadn’t knocked me for a loop with her doubts about Elsie Londergan.

And if my buzzer hadn’t buzzed.

Leaping straight up in the air (and straight out of my skin), I actually went blank for a moment. I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I was, or why my legs were shaking. Then my buzzer rang again, which brought me back to myself, which brought me back to wondering which of the aforementioned possible murderers was at my door. I darted across to the living room window, pulled a big gap in the side of the shade, and peered down at the large, broad-shouldered figure standing one floor below, right in front of the building’s entrance.

One glimpse of the man’s face (which was entirely visible since his head was tilted back and he was looking straight up through the window at me) melted away all my fears and misgivings. It was Dan. And he was-miracle of all miracles-smiling.

I bounded ballet-style across the floor, buzzed him in, and stood waiting in my open doorway for him to climb the stairs to my apartment. I didn’t have to wait long. He took the stairs two at a time and reached the landing in a flash. Then he scooped me up in his arms, crushed me to his chest, and smothered my gasping mouth with the hardest, roughest, deepest, hottest kiss I’d ever experienced in my whole wide wishful life.

“I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled, after he’d sucked his way across my cheek and planted his panting mouth right next to my ear. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you the way I did last night. I felt bad about it all day.” His humid breath whooshed into my ear and streamed all the way down to my toes.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I moaned. “I never should have…” I guess Dan wasn’t interested in hearing the rest of my apology because he gave me another big fat kiss right then, making it impossible for me to speak. And this effective silencing maneuver had-as you’ve probably already guessed-a profound effect on me.

When we finally came up for air, Dan stepped back and clasped his hands to my shoulders, holding me firmly at arm’s length. “I hate to kiss and run,” he said with a sexy smirk, “but I’ve got to go. We’re closing in on the Bradbury killer tonight.”

“Phwat? Phwoo?” My lips were free but they still weren’t functional.

“The Broadway producer who was stabbed at the Majestic,” Dan said, somehow understanding my questions. “We know who the murderer is and we’re on the way to arrest him now. My partner on this case is waiting for me in the car, so I’ve got to get a move on.” He dropped his hands from my shoulders, anchored his hat at a new angle, and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, babe.” He was down the steps and out the door before I could babble another word.

I SPENT THE REST OF THE EVENING FLOATING on a cloud. (The cherubs lolling on the fluffs of angel hair at Macy’s had nothing, and I do mean nothing, on me!) I sat at the typewriter for an hour or so, bringing all my notes on the murder up to date, without having a single anxiety fit. I wrote down every clue to the killing I could think of, never worrying-even for a second-about the danger the killer might pose to me. I drank one Dr. Pepper and smoked three L &M filter tips without once jumping up to peek through the shade to see if Jimmy Birmingham was hanging out at the laundromat. I was so cool I was downright cucumberal.

(It’s amazing what one little kiss-okay, two great big juicy ones-can do.)

When I finished my story notes I turned on the radio. Eddie Fisher was singing “Oh! My Papa.” Well, I was in far too sensual a mood to listen to that, so I kept turning the dial, searching for a better song, finally settling on “Make Yourself Comfortable” by Sarah Vaughan. Then I took my Santa Claus paper and red satin ribbon out of the coat closet and wrapped up Lenny’s lunchbox. After placing the wrapped package back in the shopping bag and setting it near the door (so I wouldn’t forget to take it with me to work in the morning), I turned off the radio and the downstairs lights and floated up to bed.