Terry looked so hopeful I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth: that the DD police consultant job was just a sham; that Dan Street didn’t actually work for the magazine, but was merely paid a small retainer for the use of his name and photo just to make the magazine look official; that even if he wanted to (which he most definitely wouldn’t!), the parameters of Dan’s real job-as a highly respected NYPD homicide detective in the Midtown South Precinct-would never allow him to join forces with a fledgling crime journalist (like me) to reopen a murder investigation that had already been shut down by a detective in another district.

And that wasn’t all. There was another truth I wasn’t in the mood to divulge, a rather awkward and personally disturbing (okay, embarrassing) truth: that in spite of the fact that he was my dearly beloved boyfriend, and had been for the past seven months, Dan would rather lock me up in jail than see me get entangled in another unsolved murder case.

“Street’s a pretty busy man,” I said, waffling, finding myself unwilling to destroy all of Terry’s naïve expectations so early in the game, “and this case isn’t in his precinct. But I’ll tell him about it, see if he can help me out.”

“Good,” Terry said, satisfied. He lifted his brown fedora, swiped his gloved hand over his silvery hair, then repositioned the hat lower on his forehead. “Look, I hate to leave you like this. I wish I could stay. But now I really have to go home.”

“But what about Detective Sweeny? He’ll find you if you go home!” Okay, I admit it. I was trying to scare him into staying.

The prospect of being arrested didn’t seem to disturb Terry at all. “Maybe he will, or maybe he won’t come looking, but I can’t worry about that now,” he said, eyes narrowing with resolve. “I have to go home. I can’t stay in Judy’s apartment anymore, and I’ve run out of money. But the main cause is my father. He’s having a really hard time over Judy’s death, and I’ve been away for the past three weeks. I simply can’t leave him alone over Christmas.”

“Oh,” I said, unable to challenge Terry’s reasoning. Nobody, but nobody, should have to be alone over the holidays. Three years ago-right after Bob was killed-I’d suffered through a solo Christmas, and I wouldn’t wish the same on my worst enemy. Not even Brandon Pomeroy.

“Actually, I have to go right now,” Terry said, checking his watch, then giving me an apologetic smile. “My bags are in a locker at the station and my bus leaves in one hour. With all this snow, it’ll take me at least that long to get across town to the terminal.”

“But it’s not safe to travel in this weather!” I whined, still trying-in spite of my own urgent need to get back to the office-to delay Terry’s departure. “I’ll bet the buses aren’t even running!”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

The fat lady was singing loud and clear. “Okay,” I said, heaving a huge, deflating sigh, “but promise you’ll call me when you get home? There’s so much more I need to know.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call you. I have your home number and your office number in my wallet. And you have mine. It’s in the shoebox.”

“It’s better to call me at home.”

“No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to stand up tall and straight, putting on a big show of self-confidence. I was a towering Eleanor Roosevelt on the outside, but a teetering Mamie Eisenhower within. As curious as I was about the case, as committed as I was to helping my late husband’s good friend, as determined as I was to find out everything I could about Judy Catcher’s horrible, untimely death, I still couldn’t help thinking what an idiot I’d been to let myself get so involved.

Terry leaned over and gave me a quick hug. “Thanks for everything, Paige,” he said, pulling back and resting his forearms on my shoulders. “You’re the best. Bob was a very lucky man.” He stared into my eyes for one brief but meaningful second, then spun himself around, strode across the marble floor, pushed his way through the revolving glass door, and vanished in a frosty flurry.

I was left standing there like a statue, holding a shoebox full of contraband diamonds in my hands, feeling as lost and lonely as Snow White in the forest-before all the birds and bunnies came out of the woods to comfort her. Where are my birds and bunnies? I wondered, though I knew from past experience they’d be hiding out like bandits till the heat blew over.

LENNY WAS STANDING UP FRONT, NEAR THE entrance, when I walked (okay, lunged) into the office. “Where the hell have you been?” he said, keeping his voice down to a scratchy whisper. “Do you know what time it is? You are so, so lucky Pomeroy’s not back. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it in time.”

“I was afraid of that, too,” I said, setting the shoebox down on the nearest table, tearing off my hat and coat, and hooking them both on the tree. I took a peek at Pomeroy’s empty chair and grinned. “I guess the gods and goddesses of good fortune haven’t totally abandoned me yet.”

Lenny looked at the box on the table and muttered, astonished, “You went shoe shopping? In the middle of a snowstorm, you went shoe shopping? You risked your steady job plus your entire freelance writing career to go shopping for shoes?”

His voice had climbed a little too high on the audio meter. Both Mike and Mario looked up from their work and began watching our little drama as if it were a mesmerizing segment of the “I’ve Got a Secret” game show. A Mark Goodson-Bill Todman Production.

“Hush!” I said, giving Lenny the evil eye. “Of course I didn’t go shoe shopping! There’s something else in this box. I’ll tell you about it later.” Turning away from Lenny before he could utter another syllable, I picked up the shoebox, whisked it over to my desk, shoved it way in the back of my lower left-hand file drawer, and sat down.

Jaw hanging open like a hatch, Lenny gawked at me for a couple more seconds, then shrugged, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and shuffled back to his own desk in the rear. I knew that he was miffed at me-unnerved by my brusque demeanor-but I also knew that he would forgive me. Ever since the day he’d saved my life, Lenny Zimmerman thought I was the best creation since waxed paper.

I’d barely gotten out of my boots and back into my pumps when Brandon Pomeroy returned. He was quite drunk, as usual, but-unless you were as familiar with his façade of sobriety as I was-you’d never know it. He wasn’t staggering or stumbling (or, God forbid, singing), and his spine was as straight as a drum major’s baton. He had no trouble at all removing his hat, muffler, and overcoat and hanging them-neatly-on the rack. His gray flannel suit looked freshly pressed; his crisp white shirt was spotless; his maroon silk tie wasn’t the least bit crooked.

And when he spoke, he didn’t slur a single word.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner,” he said as he walked past my desk and sat down at his own. His nose was so high in the air I was surprised it wasn’t snowcapped. “I trust you’ve been having a productive workday. Is the backyard paste-up ready to go to the printer?”

There are times when one has to be honest-when the truth, and nothing but the truth, will do. This wasn’t one of those times. “I’m almost finished, sir,” I said, shuffling some galleys around on my desk, trying to look busy and efficient. “I’ll have it ready for the afternoon pickup.”

“See that you do,” Pomeroy said with a sniff, swiveling around in his chair till his face was to the wall and his back was turned to me. Though he kept his head held high and continued to sit up straight as a fence post, he was, I knew, about to take his afternoon sabbatical (i.e., his alcohol-induced afternoon nap).

“Yes, sir!” I said, making a cross-eyed face at the ceiling and mentally shouting Arrrgh! I didn’t know what was worse-having to figure out a covert way to do four hours worth of work in two, or having to lick Pomeroy’s expensive Italian leather boots in the process.