Yes! There they were, plain as day, on page fourteen. They probably weren’t the exact words Swift had used, but I figured they were pretty close: “Jesus H. Christ!” he had shouted (in a voice loud enough to wake the dead). “Haven’t you had enough? I did what you wanted, Lily. Give it up already! I’m through! Go find yourself another stooge!”

So somebody named Lily had been making unwelcome demands on Roscoe Swift, and he was really upset about it. The question was, were Roscoe Swift’s Lily and Augusta Smythe’s Lily one and the same? I had a very strong feeling they were. But feelings-no matter how strong they are-don’t qualify as evidence. I needed to prove that there was a connection between Lillian Smythe and Roscoe Swift. But how the heck was I going to do that?

It was 4:30 in the morning. Christmas morning. Everybody in Manhattan was sleeping but me (me and untold numbers of overexcited, insomniac children who were sneaking downstairs to see what Santa had left them under the tree). Abby and Terry were sleeping soundly. Dan was surely snoring up a storm. And here I was-so wide awake and stimulated I could barely breathe-tottering around my apartment like a demented ostrich, desperately trying to think of a way to contact Roscoe Swift and get him to talk about his association with Lillian Smythe.

I looked Swift up in the phone book, but he wasn’t there. Either he didn’t live in the city, or he had an unlisted number, or he was entered under a different name, or he didn’t have a home telephone at all. Not knowing what else to do-and so crazed I just had to do something-I looked up the number for Chelsea Realty and wrote it down. And then-even though I knew it was really, really early in the morning, on Christmas Day, of all days; and even though I knew I had a better chance (at that particular hour, on that particular holiday) of reaching God than getting through to Roscoe Swift-I picked up the phone and dialed the Chelsea Realty office.

Nobody answered. But that was no surprise. What was surprising was the reason nobody answered-which was because the phone never rang in the first place. And that was because the line was busy.

You heard me right. The line was busy! Somebody was actually there, in the Chelsea Realty office, at 4:30 (by now, 4:45) in the morning, on Christmas Day, talking on the telephone! I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. I slammed the phone down, then picked it up and dialed the same number again. And I got the same busy signal again. Who was on the phone? Was it Roscoe? And if so, who was he talking to?

Knowing I’d probably never learn the answers to these questions, but determined to at least try, I ran upstairs and threw on some clothes. Then I scrambled back down the stairs and dialed the number again. It was still busy. If I hurried, really hurried, I might be able to get to the Chelsea Realty office in time to see (and hopefully speak to) whoever was there.

Moving at breakneck speed, I pulled on my coat and my snowboots, and darted next door for my purse, checking to see if I had enough money for the subway. (I did-a half dollar and two dimes). Then I lunged down the stairwell and burst out onto the street-smack into the frigid, pitch black, pre-dawn air-feeling like Brenda Starr on a heroic fact-finding mission, but surely looking like a half-drunk harridan who’d lost her everloving mind.

LOOK, I KNEW IT WASN’T A SENSIBLE THING for me to do. Whoever had been using the phone in the realty office when I got the busy signals would probably be long gone by the time I got there-if I ever got there (the subways were running on early-morning holiday schedule, which meant the next train might not arrive until sometime next year). But that was a chance I was willing-make that compelled-to take. Once I had made the connection between Roscoe Swift and Lillian Smythe, I simply couldn’t sit still. Or wait for the rest of the world to wake up. I had to take action.

By some unimaginable stroke of luck, a train pulled into the Sheridan Square station just minutes after I did. I jumped on and grabbed hold of the strap closest to the door, too hopped-up to sit down. I held on tight as the train lurched out of the station and hurtled its way uptown. There was only one other person in the car with me-a skinny old man in a coonskin cap who sat next to a window, smoking a cigarette, and staring out at the black blur of the vanishing tunnel walls as if enjoying the view.

When I emerged from the subway depths at 28th Street, it was still dark as night. But I had no trouble seeing. Thanks to the shining street lamps and the radiant holiday displays (many of the store windows were decorated with glowing Christmas lights), I made my way down Seventh Avenue with ease. When I turned onto 27th Street, however, the world grew a whole lot dimmer. The lampposts were few and far between, and none of the office or apartment windows facing out onto the dark, deserted street were lit from within.

The front window of the Chelsea Realty office was completely obscure. I walked up close to it and, standing on my tiptoes so I could see over the large, flower-strewn sign covering the entire lower half of the window, I pressed my nose to the glass, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered inside.

Not a single lamp was lit in the long, narrow front room, but I could see a tall, thin sliver of light emanating from one side of the almost-closed door at the far end of the room-the door leading to Roscoe’s private office.

My heart started beating like a conga drum. There was a light on in the back room! Somebody might be there! Maybe it was Roscoe! I was panting so hard and so fast I felt lightheaded.

(I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m always lightheaded. And considering the various sticky situations I’d so blithely put myself into since my search for Judy’s killer began, you may be right. But let me just say this about that: The situation I’d put myself into this time suddenly felt a whole lot stickier than the others-and my head felt a whole heck of a lot lighter than usual. So there!)

Forcing myself to move quickly, before my cold feet got any colder, I stepped over to the Chelsea Realty entrance and tried the knob. To my great surprise, the door clicked open, just as it had the first time I’d come. Had Roscoe’s assistant forgotten to lock it again? Or had Roscoe himself neglected to lock it when he let himself in? Taking care not to make the slightest sound, I slithered into the dark front office… and then I just stood there-like a tree-for a few minutes, listening for noises from the back room.

At first I didn’t hear anything. Just the echoing whoosh of my own breath and the loud, walloping beats of my own heart. I was straining so hard I thought my eardrums might pop. The profound silence told me one thing for sure: Nobody was talking on the phone anymore. It was so quiet I wondered if anybody was even there anymore.

I stared at the thin strip of light at the edge of the door for a while, watching for silent shadows, sudden movements, any breaks in the beam. When nothing disturbed the steady shaft, I came to believe that the person had either gone or was being very still. Unimaginably still. Dying to know which of these possibilities was actually true, I slowly-very slowly!-began to sneak toward the lighted crack in the door, holding my breath and creeping along the creaky wood floorboards like a cartoon mouse.

When I was about six feet away from the door I heard something. It was a very faint sound, but at least it was audible. Stopping dead in my tracks, I sucked in a quick breath of air, aimed one ear toward the crack in the door, and focused all my energy on listening.

There. I could still hear it. It was a kind of hum. Not the musical kind of hum people use when they’re singing to themselves. More like the kind of hum a bee makes. Like a droning, whining buzz. Like a busy signal.