"Inside and outside, boss. I may have something for you tonight."

Mason stopped at the jail to talk with Blues. The sheriff's deputy who brought Blues into the visiting attorney room pointed his thumb and forefinger at Mason, dropped the hammer on his imaginary gun, and told Mason he was saving a cell for him.

Blues spoke first. "Talk inside is that the cops are looking at you for the Shirley Parker thing."

"They can look all they want. Harry knows I didn't do it."

"Who did?"

"Tony Manzerio is my choice." Mason briefed Blues about Cullan's files, the fire, and Shirley Parker. He told Blues about Donovan Jenkins's contract with Ed Fiora and Jenkins's loan to the mayor. He finished up with his visits to Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas.

"You think the same person killed Cullan and Parker?" Blues asked.

"Makes sense," Mason answered. "If the ballistics tests show that the bullets were shot from the same gun, you'll be out of here with a refund. I'll check with Harry as soon as I can."

Blues nodded silently, got up from his seat, and knocked on the door, signaling the guard that he was ready to return to his cell. He cocked his fist at his side, making imaginary contact with Mason, who returned the gesture.

Mason worried as the door closed behind Blues. Blues's face never betrayed what he was thinking or what he might do. That unpredictability made him particularly dangerous. Even a rattlesnake rattled before it struck.

Blues had been in jail for over three weeks, charged with a murder that could take his own life. Mason had looked for signs that Blues was bending to the grind of incarceration. He had seen none; no tic at the corner of Blues's eyes, no tightening of his mourn, no tremor in his hands. Yet Mason knew that Blues's rage simmered just beneath the surface and that Blues would make someone pay for putting him behind bars. Harry would be Blues's most likely target. Mason worried that getting Blues out of jail might just be the first step down a path that brought him back to the same place.

December's subzero wind chills and snowstorms had given way to a steadily raw January. Each day brought a thin mist or a thicker sleet that whipped and whirled into every body pore and open space. The sun was being held hostage behind a perpetually slate-gray sky that pressed closer to ground with night's early onset. It was the kind of weather that kept heads down and chins tucked against chests. By spring, the entire city would need a chiropractor just to stand up straight.

Mason had parked in a public lot across from the jail. His cell phone rang as he sat down behind the wheel of the Jeep, rubbing his hands against the cold.

"Lou Mason," he said, his breath vaporizing before disappearing.

"I didn't think you would answer." It was Beth Harrell. She sounded slightly breathless, a bit shaky.

"That makes us even. I didn't think you would call."

It was a small lie. Mason had expected that one of Bern 's ex-husbands, or both, would tell her about his visits. She was the kind of woman who kept a hold on a man long after the last kiss. He'd expected her to call or reach out to him some other way, but decided that there was no reason to tell her so.

Mason wondered which ex-husband had called Beth. Baker McKenzie would call to brag about decking him. Al Douglas would call so that he could witness her anguish.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Calling you was an impulse, another bad one, I guess."

Her voice triggered a crotch-centered impulse in Mason that he knew was bad. Beth was a dangerous woman under the best of circumstances, and they were a long way from that relatively stable ground. Still, she managed to reach inside him. "Don't apologize. What's on your mind?"

"I'm practically a prisoner in my apartment. If I go out, the press won't leave me alone. I guess I was just feeling lonely and I couldn't think of anyone else to call." She hesitated, waiting for Mason to reply. He didn't. "Bad idea, huh?" she asked in a low, throaty, bad-girl voice.

"Not the best, but I haven't heard many good ideas lately," he told her. "The last guy you went out with on a Friday night ended up with a bullet in his eye. I don't want to make page one again any time soon."

"Neither do I. Although I don't think we could top your picture in this morning's paper unless we were caught having sex on Main Street."

Mason laughed, disarmed by her earthy humor. "You haven't seen my good side," he told her.

"Show me," she teased. "I'll make us dinner. You can park at the hotel and take the walkway across to my building. No one will see you. You'll be safe."

"Give me an hour," he told her.

Mason had a hard time using the words safe and Beth in the same sentence, but he had to talk to her about the pictures and about the gun.

Mason stopped at home, showered, shaved, fed the dog, and listened to his messages. His aunt Claire had called again, demanding that he call her. He promised the answering machine that he would. He left the lights on so that Tuffy wouldn't spend the evening in the dark, and drove to the Windcrest Hotel on the Plaza.

There were two entrances to the hotel's parking garage, one on the north side along Ward Parkway, and one on the east side on Wornall Road. Bern 's apartment was in a high-rise on the south side of the Windcrest. Mason chose the north entrance to the parking garage to minimize the chance that some reporter staking out Beth's apartment would see him.

It took Mason longer than he expected to find the walkway that connected the hotel and the apartment building, and it was past seven o'clock when he knocked on Beth's door. He heard the sharp clack of heels on hardwood as Beth walked hurriedly to the door, opening it with a sigh mixed equally with relief and anticipation.

Mason stood in the doorway, deciding whether to cross her threshold. Beth waited, one hand on the door, the other on her hip. She was wearing black linen slacks with a blood-red silk shirt, untucked at her waist and unbuttoned at her breasts. A sly smile creased her cheeks. She looked like a woman who'd never known trouble she hadn't asked for and who was ready to ask again.

"Come on in, Lou. I won't bite," she teased him.

"Hardly worth the effort then," he said as he walked past her.

Beth's apartment was compact. The entrance hall opened into a living room with a wall of glass that faced north, looking over the top of the Windcrest Hotel to the Plaza fifteen stories below, its eight square blocks of shops sparkling in a quarter of a million Christmas lights. The walls were papered in cream cloth, the hardwood floors softened with rugs in warm colors with dark borders. The furniture was more traditional than he had expected, the sort of chairs and sofas one inherited rather than bought. The lighting was indirect, casting shadows. Long, tapered candles lit with perfect ovals of yellow flame beckoned from the dining room table. Mellow jazz filled the corners from hidden speakers.

Beth followed behind him as he surveyed before stopping to look down at the Plaza. She nestled against his back and put her hands on his shoulders, drawing his coat halfway off. He turned toward her and she pushed his coat onto the floor, resting her hands on his chest. He held her arms, not trusting his hands. "We're alone, if you were wondering," she said.

"That's what worries me," he told her as he took her by the wrists and dropped her hands at her sides. "Get your coat."

Her face reddened as if he had slapped her. "Why?" she demanded.

"We need to talk, and the chances of keeping our clothes on while we do it are much better outside than inside."

She backed up a few steps, hugging herself. "You are the master of the mixed message," she said. "I'm at the end of my rope and you take advantage of me every time we're together. I can't keep playing these games with you."