“Taste?” said Paxton. Now that he’d crossed his line, it was a free-fire zone. Even so, he lowered his voice to a hush and looked around as if he would be ducking lightning bolts for speaking ill of the dead. But speak ill he did. “If you’re looking to see rhyme or reason to this collection, you won’t, due to one unavoidable fact. Matthew was a vulgarian. He didn’t know art. He knew price.”

Rook came up beside Heat and said, “I think if we keep looking we’ll find a Dogs Playing Poker,” which made her laugh. Even Paxton indulged himself a chuckle. They all stopped when the front door opened and Kimberly Starr breezed in.

“Sorry I’m late.” Heat and Rook stared at her, barely masking disbelief and judgment. Her face was swollen from Botox or some other series of cosmetic injections. Redness and bruising highlighted the unnatural swelling of her lips and smile lines. Her brow and forehead were marked with deep pink speed bumps that filled wrinkle lines and seemed to be growing before their eyes. The woman looked as if she had fallen face-first into a hornet’s nest. “The traffic lights were out on Lexington. Damn heat wave.”

“I left the papers on the desk in the study,” said Noah Paxton. He already had his briefcase in one hand and the other on the doorknob. “I have a lot of loose ends to attend to at the office. Detective Heat, if you need me for anything, you know how to find me.” The eye roll he gave Nikki behind Kimberly’s back threw water on Heat’s trophy wife/ accountant sleeping together hypothetical, although she would still check it out.

Kimberly and the detective took their identical seats in the living room from the day of the murder. Rook avoided the toile wingchair and sat on the couch with Mrs. Starr. Probably so he wouldn’t have to look at her, thought Nikki.

The face work wasn’t the only change. She was out of her Talbots and into Ed Hardy, a black tank dress with a large tattoo print of a red rose and the legend “Dedicated To The One I Love” in biker scroll. At least the widow was in black. Kimberly came at her brusquely, like this was some intrusion on the rest of her day. “Well? You said you have something for me to look at?”

Heat didn’t personalize. Her style was to assess, not judge. Her assessment was that, personal grief modality aside, Kimberly Starr was treating her like the hired help, and she needed to reverse that power dynamic and fast. “Why did you lie to me about your whereabouts at the time of your husband’s murder, Mrs. Starr?”

The woman’s swollen face was still capable of registering some emotions, and fear was one of them. Nikki Heat liked the look. “What do you mean? Lie? Why would I lie?”

“I’ll get to that when I’m ready. First, I want to know where you were between one and two P.M. since you were not at Dino-Bites. You lied.”

“I didn’t lie. I was there.”

“You dropped your son and nanny off and left. I already have witnesses. Should I ask the nanny, also?”

“No. That’s true, I left.”

“Where were you, Mrs. Starr? And this time I’d advise you to be truthful.”

“All right. I was with a man. I was embarrassed to tell you.”

“Tell me now. What do you mean with a man?”

“God, you’re a bitch. I was sleeping with this guy, OK? Happy?”

“What’s his name?”

“You can’t be serious.”

The face Nikki gave her could still show the full range of expression. It told her she was quite serious. “And don’t say Barry Gable, he says you stood him up.” Heat watched Kimberly’s mouth go slack. “Barry Gable. You know, the man who assaulted you on the street? The one you told Detective Ochoa must have been a purse snatcher and that you didn’t know him?”

“I was having an affair. My husband just died. I was embarrassed to say.”

“So if you’re over your shyness, Kimberly, tell me about this other affair so I can verify your whereabouts. And, as I’m sure you just figured out, I will check.”

Kimberly gave her the name of a doctor, Cory Van Peldt. Yes, it was the truth, she said, and yes, it was the same doctor she had seen this morning. Heat had her spell his name and wrote it on her pad along with his number. Kimberly said she met him when she went in for a facial assessment two weeks ago, and they had this magic thing. Heat was betting the magic was in his pants and was his wallet, but she knew better than to say so. She prayed Rook had the same sense.

As long as things were in a hostile vein, Nikki decided to press on. In a few minutes she would need Kimberly’s cooperation with the photos and wanted her to think twice about lying, or be so rattled she’d do it poorly if she did. “A lot of things can’t be taken at face value with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me, Laldomina.”

“Excuse me?”

“And Samantha.”

“Hey, don’t you start with that, nuh-uh.”

“Wow, that’s cool. You sounded pure Long Island.” She turned to Rook. “See what stress does? All that preppy posing falls away.”

“First of all, my legal name is Kimberly Starr. There’s no crime in changing a name.”

“Help me out: Why Samantha? I’m picturing you with your natural color and see you more as a Tiffany or Crystal.”

“You cops, you always loved to give us girls a hard time for getting by any way we could. People do what they gotta do, ya know?”

“That’s why we’re having this conversation. To find out who did what.”

“If that means did I kill my husband…God, I can’t believe I just said that…The answer is no.” She waited for some response from Heat, and Nikki didn’t give it. Let her wonder, she thought.

“My husband changed his name, too, did you know that? In the eighties. He took a branding seminar and decided what was holding him back was his name. Bruce DeLay. He said the words construction and DeLay weren’t the best selling tool, so he researched names that would be brand-positive. You know, upbeat and inspiring confidence. He made a list, names like Champion and Best. He picked Star and added the extra r so it wouldn’t sound fake.”

Much as she had the day before, when she’d crossed from his opulent lobby into his ghost-town offices, Heat watched another chunk of Matthew Starr’s public image crack and drop off. “How did he end up with Matthew?”

“Research. He did focus groups to see what name people trusted that went with his looks. So what if I changed mine, too? BFD, ya know?”

Detective Heat decided she had gotten as much as she was going to get out of this line of questions and was happy at least to have a fresh alibi to check. She took out her photo array. As she began to lay down the pictures and tell her to take her time, Kimberly interrupted her on the third shot.

“This man here. I know him. That’s Miric.”

Nikki felt the tingle she got when a domino was tipping, ready to fall. “And how do you know him?”

“He was Matt’s bookie.”

“Is Miric a first or last name?”

“You’re all about names today, aren’t you?”

“Kimberly, he might have killed your husband.”

“I don’t know which name. He was just Miric. Polish dude, I think. Not sure.”

Nikki had her examine the rest of the array, without any other hits. “And you’re positive your husband placed bets with this man.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be sure of that?”

“When Noah Paxton looked at these pictures, he didn’t recognize him. If he’s paying the bills, wouldn’t he know him?”

“Noah? He refused to deal with the bookmaking. He had to give Matthew the cash but looked the other way.” Kimberly said she didn’t know Miric’s address or phone number. “No, I only saw him when he came to the door or showed up at a restaurant.”

The detective would double-check Starr’s desk and personal diary or his BlackBerry for some coded entry or recent call list. But a name and face and occupation was a good start.

As she squared her stack of photos to put away, she told Kimberly she had thought she didn’t know about her husband’s gambling.