“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I peered down into the oatmeal box and took a long, lingering look at the tangled heap of glittering gems. Then I scrunched the surrounding tissue paper back together, put the top back on the cereal box, tapped it down tight, and slid the closed container across the table to Terry.

“Better put these someplace safe,” I said. “Someplace safer than a shoebox.”

“No!” he cried, pushing the oatmeal carton back in my direction. “I brought them for you. I want you to keep them.”

“Are you nuts?!!!” I gulped, beginning to believe that he really was. “I can’t possibly do that! Those diamonds don’t belong to you. They’re not yours to give away.”

“I don’t mean that you should keep them forever,” Terry quickly interjected. “I just want you to keep them till the case is solved. They’re the only real clue we have. You’ll need them to catch Judy’s murderer.”

I’d been afraid he was going to say something like that-something about me chasing down Judy’s killer. And I guess I’d known from the moment he told me about the murder that that was what he wanted me to do. But I also knew that I was a writer-not a detective-and even though I had, by some incredible, unimaginable fluke, managed to flush out the psycho who had murdered Babs Comstock (and who then almost murdered me!), that didn’t mean I’d ever in a hundred million years be able to uncover (much less catch!) the monster who killed Terry’s sister. And even if I did catch him, what was I supposed to do with him? Pronounce him guilty and lock him up for life in my broom closet?

“Hold it right there!” I said, sticking my hand up like a stop sign. “You’re the one named Catcher, not me! And maybe you haven’t noticed, Mr. Catcher, but I’m a journalist, not a cop. I don’t solve crimes, I just write stories about them.”

“Yes, but you do it so well. And you do it here in Manhattan, so you know how the city’s criminal justice system works. And Bob said you’re a very tenacious investigator. The word he used was ‘relentless.’ He said that once you start searching for something-a lost key, a lost soul, even a hopelessly lost cause-you never give up. You stick to the bitter end. And that’s what I need-someone who believes that my sister was deliberately murdered and who will stop at nothing to prove it.”

“Yikes!” I cried, suddenly catching a glimpse of the big chrome-rimmed clock on the wall. “It’s two-fifteen! I’ve got to get back to the office immediately.” I shoved my arms into my coat sleeves, grabbed my purse and gloves, and bounced to my feet like a startled kangaroo. “I’m not kidding, Terry. I have to go right now. I could lose my job for staying out so long.”

Terry looked at his watch. “Good God! I didn’t realize it was so late! I’ve got to go, too, or I’ll miss my bus.” He shoved the oatmeal container back into the shoebox and slapped his hat on his head. Then he jumped up from his chair, picked up his gloves and the shoebox, and followed close behind me as I lurched away from the table and hurried through the still-crowded restaurant to the exit.

“But what about my sister?” he begged, bounding ahead to open the door for me. “Will you at least try to dig up some new evidence-something that will convince the police to get back to work on the case?”

We stepped out onto the icy sidewalk. The air was so cold it was hard to breathe; the snow so thick it was hard to see. “I’ll do my best,” I promised, benumbed and blinded by the bright white storm. Then I took Terry’s arm and held on for dear life as he escorted me up the block toward my o ffice.

Chapter 4

DUCKING OUR HEADS AGAINST THE DRIVING snow, Terry and I helped each other stay on our feet as we skidded up the slippery sidewalk and across the slushy street to the tall, sand-colored brick building I worked in. It wasn’t until we had pushed our way into the warm, steamy lobby, and I got a whiff of the burnt hamburger smell wafting from the adjoining coffee shop, that I realized we’d never had any lunch.

I was so hungry I wanted to dart into the coffee shop and grab a sandwich to take upstairs, but I didn’t dare take the time. If Pomeroy got back to the office before I did, I’d be in big trouble. And if he saw me eating lunch at my desk during working hours-or, as he liked to put it, “working-class hours”-he’d blow his top.

“So you’re definitely going to help me, right?” Terry said, anxiously tugging me over to a secluded corner of the lobby, beyond the bank of partitioned telephones and directories, behind the huge, tinsel-draped Christmas tree. “You’ll find out everything you can about Judy’s murder?” His azure eyes were gleaming with expectation.

“Against my better judgment, yes,” I said. “But don’t expect any miracles. I’m just a woman who writes about crime. I’m no Sherlock Holmes. And I’m no Miss Marple either!”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” I said, heart sinking at the thought of the danger and disappointments that no doubt lay ahead. “It’s just that I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. I could fail in the end, you know. To tell the truth, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Here!” Terry said, shoving the Thom McAn shoebox into my hands. “Start with this. Maybe you can trace the diamonds to a certain jeweler, and then find out who bought them, or stole them. And there’s some other stuff in this box, too-a couple of photographs, the address of the building where my sister lived, Mrs. Londergan’s apartment number and phone number, the names and address of Judy’s former roommates.”

“Did Judy have a personal calendar or an address book?”

“Yes, but the police took them into evidence before I got here. I never even got a look them. All I can give you is the stuff in this shoebox-things that should be of help.”

Suddenly, my nerves went haywire. And a flood of adrenaline shot through my veins. “But what about you?!!” I said (okay, shrieked). “You’d be the most help of all! Why do you have to go back to Pittsburgh today? Why can’t you stay here for a while-at least give me a chance to talk to you some more about Judy and learn everything I can about her life, and,” I added sadly, “her death. I can’t do this all by myself, Terry. I need you. Please don’t go!” In case you haven’t noticed, I wasn’t quite ready to be left to my own devices.

“I’ve already given you the most important information,” Terry insisted. “And we can always talk to each other on the phone. And besides,” he added, “you don’t have to work on this alone. Get the other agents at the magazine to help you. This could be a major story, and it’s a Daring Detective exclusive! They’ll be chomping at the bit to get in on the investigation.”

Other agents at the magazine? Boy, did he have the wrong idea! (Along, I should add, with the rest of the detective magazine-reading public.)

“You don’t understand,” I told him. “There are no agents at Daring Detective. Just writers and artists and editors. And there aren’t any big investigations going on either. Practically all the stories we publish are nothing but clip jobs. They’re written in-house and rehashed from assorted newspaper and magazine articles that are already in print.” I wasn’t exaggerating, either. To the best of my knowledge, the only exclusive, firsthand story Daring Detective had ever published had been the one about the Babs Comstock murder. My story.

“But you’ve got a police consultant on staff!” Terry argued. “A real homicide detective. What’s his name?… Street! Detective Dan Street. There’s a picture of him and a write-up about his career in every issue. Can’t you get him to help you?”