"Stimulate yourself, Sam! I'm not interested in desecrating gravestones to get you off your ass. Whoever did it's going to have me breathing in his face, believe me. Mrs. Ostrova's a nice old woman and this upset her. She was the one who discovered it. I guess she was up there right after you. Jesus, who the fuck would do that? Write 'Hi' on a gravestone?"

"Hi, Sam. They were saying hello to me, Frannie. That's what gave me the creeps."

"Yeah, whatever. Listen, next time anything like this happens again, you call. Okay? You want my help on this, you help me back. Otherwise, I'm going to kick your ass like I used to. Got me?"

"Gotcha, chief."

"And one other thing: Hi, Sam!" He sniggered and hung up.

I took the lovebirds out to dinner. After forcing myself to stop thinking about his fingertips on her skin, I realized Ivan was an outstanding young man, and I could easily understand her infatuation. He was intense and enthusiastic in equal measure. He spoke respectfully to Cassandra and gave her his complete attention whenever she spoke. More important, he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. He was also one of those fortunate people curious about all sorts of things at the same time. Economics was no more important than the last novel he had read. He had been a state champion wrestler in high school. Granted, he exuded a faint aura of arrogance. But I would have been arrogant too if I'd been as on the ball and engaged as him.

At the end of the meal, Ivan said he'd heard about my new project and had brought along something that he hoped would interest me. Reaching into his knapsack, he pulled out an inch-thick wad of papers that looked like an unbound movie script. Since hearing the story from Cass, he had been doing some research for me. Another Internet Cadet, he had driven his Porsche brain all over the information superhighway, picking up a variety of available data that might be helpful. Thumbing quickly through the pages, I saw documents from the county district attorney's office, articles from regional newspapers about the murder, an old piece in Esquire magazine by Mark Jacobson I'd already read about the death of Gordon Cadmus . . . It was a treasure trove.

"Wow, this is terrific stuff! Thank you very much, Ivan."

"I would really like to help out in any way I could. I love doing research."

"I may take you up on that. Let's see what's needed and then we can talk some more about it."

When we got back home, they went out again. I stood at the window watching them leave. The silence in that room was very loud. I was happy for Cass, but knew tonight marked in some profound way the beginning of the end of our relationship as it had been for so many years. She had a lover now, someone who wanted to hold her and hear her secrets. Letting go of the curtain, I sadly wondered if she had played catch with him yet.

Feeling a wave of middle-age self-pity break over me, I shook myself like a wet dog and decided to do some reading – Veronica's letter, Ivan's information.

The dog was planted in my favorite chair, sound asleep and making unattractive wet sounds. More than once he had snapped at me when I tried to rouse him from said chair. I wasn't about to go through that again. I sat on the couch and pulled some reading glasses out of my pocket.

I heard a noise upstairs. There had been a series of break-ins around the neighborhood. That made any sound ten times more suspect when you were alone in the house. I stood up slowly and walked on tiptoe to the staircase. I listened for more, but nothing came. There was a hammer on a side table and I picked it up. For a while I had considered buying a gun for the house, but that only made you part of the problem. The hammer would have to do.

At the top of the stairs I saw a light on in my bedroom. I hadn't turned it on. Stupidly, I strode over and kicked the door open. Veronica was sitting in the rocking chair by the window. Heart racing, anger and relief chased each other around in my stomach. "How did you get in?"

"I know how to open doors."

"You know how to open doors. That's great! Welcome to my house, Veronica. Why didn't you just call and say you were coming?"

"Because I was afraid you'd tell me not to. You didn't answer my letter."

"I just got it!" I went to the bed and sat down. There was this hammer in my hand. I looked at it and dropped it on the floor.

"I was so scared, Sam. I thought you'd never want to talk to me again. I was going crazy." Her voice cracked on the last word. When she spoke again, it was too loud and agitated. "But this is my life! Not yours or anyone else's! Why am I always apologizing for what I've done? Don't you think I feel bad anyway? Don't you think I look back and say, 'How could you have done that? What got into you?' "

I turned and looked at her. "Did you write on that gravestone?"

She stared at me, shook her head. "What are you talking about? What gravestone?"

"Forget it. Never mind." But the problem, the new worry was I didn't know if she was telling the truth. She'd already lied to me, acted in porno films, broken into my house . . . What else was Veronica Lake capable of doing?

As if reading my mind, she said, "You don't trust me at all anymore, do you?"

"You're not who I thought you were."

"Who is, Sam? Who is?"

The next morning Veronica and Cassandra met. It went very badly. Veronica and I had slept, fully clothed, in my bed. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw her, wide awake, staring at me. I got up and went into the guest room.

Cass was in the kitchen eating breakfast when I got downstairs. I told her Veronica was there and she raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know she was coming."

"Neither did I. We'll talk about it later."

Veronica appeared a few minutes later looking like hell. I introduced them. Cass tried hard to be friendly and warm but Veronica was withdrawn. She wouldn't eat anything and answered Cass's questions with short, curt sentences that were just short of being rude. It was one of the most uncomfortable meals I had sat through in a long time. Luckily Ivan came by and the two kids drove off to happier lands. When they were gone, I suggested we take the dog for a walk.

It was overcast and chilly outside. Veronica wore a light shirt. I offered her a jacket but she wouldn't take it. Crossing her arms over her chest, she walked with her head down.

"Did you read the letter I sent? No, you didn't have time. There was nothing in there except poetry by Neruda. Can I say it to you?

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul

blow through like a wind, and here where we live

will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the

table. . . .

Because the dark-faced earth does not want suffering;

it wants freshness-fire-water-bread, for everyone:

nothing should separate people but

the sun or the night, the moon or the branches.

We walked on silently. A car passed and honked its horn. I jerked and looked up quickly. It was a neighbor, giving a big wave. I waved back.

"Do they like you around here, Sam? Do you have a lot of friends?"

"No. Just people to wave to. You know me – I'm not very social."

"But I'm your friend. I'd do anything for you!"

She said it with such anger that my own reared and shot right back. I wish it hadn't. "And that's the trouble, Veronica. You were friends with Donald Gold and look at what it led to."

She gasped, stopped, and put a hand to her cheek. "You son of a bitch!" She ran down the street before I could say anything else. Stopping once, she turned and looked at me, then started running again.