"You don't give a guy any hope, do you?"

"Get this through your testosterone-drenched brain. No guy has any hope with me."

Mason sighed. "You have made me a believer. So, Beth and I take a walk. We end up out on the end of the prow. She snuggles up, the rockets red glare, and she makes a pass at me."

"A beautiful woman comes on to you and you decide to jump into the river. Are you sure you're not gay?"

"You should live long enough to find out," he told her. "In spite of what you might think about the curse of the penis, I turned her down. It wasn't pretty. She's got a fair dose of self-loathing inside that perfect body. She left and I gave her a good head start. The next thing I know, someone is shooting at me. The river was my only way out. How did you find me?"

"I guess it's time for my little confession," she began. Mason's eyes widened. "No, you moron, I didn't shoot you, but that's starting to look like an attractive option."

"Latent heterophobia?"

"More like overt smart-ass phobia! Fiora sent a bunch of invitations to the newspaper. I took one so that I could ask you to go. I threw you in just so I could watch what happened. I didn't think you could resist going after Fiora. I thought I could get a good story." Rachel looked down and away, a red stain creeping across her checks. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "I'm really sorry," she added in a voice he could barely make out.

Mason exhaled slowly. "Whew," he said. "You didn't make me come with you and you didn't make me go out on that prow with Beth Harrell. But you did save my life and that should balance anybody's books. How did you manage that?"

Rachel looked up. "My God, you are a mess of a human being! You come on to any woman with a pulse, you can't go two minutes without being a smart-ass, and you forgive way too easily."

"Makes you want me for a brother, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," she said softly. "It really does." They sipped from their mugs for a moment. "I saw Tony Manzerio fetch you for a visit with Fiora," she continued. "I want to hear all about that, by the way. Then I just kept my eye on you. When you went outside with Beth, I went out another exit, figuring I could get close without being seen."

"You saw what happened?" Mason asked her.

"I'm in the voyeur business," she said with a shrug. "When Beth left, I was going to hustle back to the front of the casino and wait for you. Then I heard the shots and saw you jump in the water. I'd been at that casino a lot and I knew there was a boat tied up at the pier. There wasn't time to call the Coast Guard. I ran for the dock, which wasn't easy in this body condom I'm wearing. The rest is commentary."

"Did you see who was shooting at me?"

Rachel shook her head. "All I know is that it wasn't coming from my side of the deck. Whoever it was couldn't have been much of a shot. It would have been hard to find an easier target."

"Unless the shooter wasn't trying to hit me. Maybe the idea was to get me to jump, let the river do the rest."

Rachel said, "I still don't understand why you wouldn't go to the hospital and let the police take care of this."

Mason didn't say anything. He drained the rest of his mug and set it down on the table.

"Yes, I do," Rachel said. "I am so dumb sometimes. You don't want to involve Beth Harrell in another scandal. You think she might really have something that you want."

"I do, but it's not what you think. You were watching me all night. I don't think Beth was. Someone had to tell her where and when to find me. Ed Fiora is the only one who could have told her that. The casino has video cameras everywhere. I'm pretty sure Fiora sent her on her mission. If he got me on videotape making love under the stars with a key witness against my client, I'd be out of this case in a heartbeat. That didn't work, so he went to plan B."

"Then the whole thing is on videotape. The shooting, everything," Rachel said.

"I'll take odds that those tapes are gone by now. I have to find out what's going on between Ed Fiora and Beth Harrell," Mason said.

"Of course. You'll drop by, talk about old times, and she'll spill her guts."

"Something like that."

"This I've got to see."

"Sorry. No press. Don't pout. You'll still get your exclusive when it's all over. There is just one thing you may want to think about."

"What's that?"

"If Fiora saw Beth and me on videotape, he saw you too. I'd be very careful."

"Happy New Year to me," Rachel said.

Beth Harrell lived in Hyde Park, one of the first neighborhoods of Kansas City to have been reclaimed from the scrap heap left by white flight to the suburbs. It had been home to the society swells during the first half of the last century. Many of its Victorian, Georgian, and Dutch Colonial homes had slid into decay, some subdivided into apartments, during the next thirty years. Over the last twenty years, it had become a hip place to live, replacing urban decline with urbane gentrification. Whites were comfortable with the blacks that were their neighbors since many of them had a J.D., M.D., or CPA to go with their BMWs.

Mason stopped in front of Beth's house, a Dutch Colonial whose redbrick had been sandblasted to give it a lighter, brighter cast. The wrought-iron anchors that secured the brick on either side of the front of the house had been recently painted, and the morning sun reflected sharply off the gleaming black paint. Mason liked the sunlight of winter better than other times of the year because the cold air made for cleaner and clearer color. On mornings like this New Year's Day, the sun shot straight through the sky, etching sharp colors and crisp shadows wherever it reached.

He sat in front of her house waiting for some sign of activity inside, knowing what he would ask her and wondering what he would do if she didn't answer truthfully. The harder part, he knew, would be discerning what was true from what was artifice. She had kept him on his heels both times he had been with her in the last two weeks. She was a beautiful, troubled, and vulnerable woman whose traits stoked a dangerous eroticism. That she was a witness, a suspect, and a possible conspirator added a geometric complexity to his feelings about her. Rachel would have told him to leave his penis in the car.

It was nine o'clock. Mason had barely slept, too jazzed by his near-death experience. He hadn't shaved, and the bags under his eyes looked as if they'd been packed for a long trip. Though his body temperature was normal, his skin still had a bluish pallor. Dressed in faded jeans, a navy corduroy shirt, and a Land's End barn jacket, he looked more as if he were getting over a bad hangover than a murder attempt. Though he suspected that Beth might have had a hand in that attempt, he didn't hesitate when he rang her doorbell. Whatever else she may be, he thought, she didn't seem dangerous on her own.

Mason watched through a glass panel on the side of her front door as Beth descended from the second floor. She was wearing a long, white robe, tied loosely at the waist, and as nearly as he could see, very little else. Her hair was tousled from interrupted sleep, and she ran her fingers through it as she approached the door. When she saw Mason's face through the glass, she stutter-stepped, pretended to tighten the belt around her robe, and opened the door.

"It's a beautiful morning, don't you think?" Mason said.

"The best so far this year," she answered.

Beth had recovered from her surprise at finding Mason at her door, and stepped to her side as he walked in. She closed the door and leaned against it. Sunlight washed through the glass side panels, wrapping her in golden ribbons. The front of her robe had slipped open, revealing the swell of her breasts. Her arms hung at her sides, inviting him to look.