Robin shifted on her elbows and tried to bring her hands together to form a T, for “timeout.” She sputtered, “I…please…stop…please.”

Marshall Fox took a grip on her shoulder and squeezed. “Shhhh. Come on, New Hope. Just relax, baby. Go with it.”

And he didn’t stop. Quite the opposite. Robin closed her eyes against the flickering light on her bedroom wall and did as she was told. No need to panic, she told herself. He’s right, just go with it. It’s not really so bad. In fact…

As her cheek moved along the pillow, she had a fleeting thought of Denise. Oh my God, if she could see me now. This was followed by another thought, and it made her laugh out loud. He’s the fox; I’m the chicken house.

Behind her, Fox continued to croon. “That’s right, New Hope. Thatta girl. You’re getting it…”

15

PETER ELLIOTT CALLED ME at home around ten. I was sitting in my perfectly ratty armchair, eating wasabi peas and thumbing through a copy of The Horse’s Mouth, trying to get into it. A Margo recommendation. It seemed like it might be good if I could actually focus on it. But the going was tough. The ringing phone got me off the hook. Which is a pun, if you think about it.

“There’s been another phone threat.”

I set down the book and sat up in the chair. “You’re kidding.”

“Word for word, exactly like the other ones. I just got a call from Joe Gallo.”

I asked, “Who got it?”

“That’s the thing, Fritz. This one doesn’t make any sense. At least not yet. It’s a total blank. The person has no connection with Marshall Fox whatsoever. I mean zero. She doesn’t even watch the show.”

My radiator began clanging. It does that when it’s pressed into action for too long. It sounds like someone is swinging at it with a ball peen hammer. I switched ears. “So what’re the details?”

“There aren’t many. It’s a woman who lives on East Eighteenth Street. Thirty-four. Single, with a boyfriend. She and the boyfriend were off on a ski trip this past week, but they didn’t miss any of the news. Woman says her boyfriend is a real news junkie, so they had CNN on all the time when they weren’t out skiing.”

“Sounds romantic,” I said.

“The point is, they caught a couple of the replays of Riddick playing that damn tape at his press conference. CNN must think it’s the audio holy grail, they’ve been playing it so often. You just wait, it’s going to find its way into a music mix of some sort. That’s the world we live in these days.”

Music mix. I vaguely knew what he was talking about.

Peter continued, “Anyway, this woman heard it a couple of times when they were out in Colorado Springs or wherever it was. She told Gallo that Robin’s murder already had her sort of freaked out. She and Burrell are the same age, and according to Gallo, the two look a little bit alike. Not that it makes any difference. My eighty-three-year-old grandmother is freaked out by what’s going on, and she’s long past her girlish beauty. But it’s out there. I’m sure you can feel it, right? People are on edge. It wasn’t helped by the Post publishing that damn photo.”

“Jesus. Don’t get Joe Gallo started on the Post.”

“Started?” Peter laughed. “That would mean he actually stopped.”

“So let’s hear what happened.”

“What happened was that they got back to the city this afternoon, and the boyfriend dropped her off. She lives in Chelsea. The woman told Gallo that when she takes a vacation, she doesn’t call in and check her machine. Cell phones these days, I wouldn’t want to be in the answering machine business. So she gets home and checks her messages, and there it was. ‘Can you taste the blood yet? Whore.’ The whole thing. It could practically be a prerecorded message. The woman lets out a scream that you could probably hear halfway down the block.”

I thought a minute, biting down on a few wasabi peas to help stimulate things. “You said it was so much like the other messages that it could have been a recording. Maybe it was a recording. Maybe it was a prank from some not-so-funny friend.”

“Right. Gallo thought of that, too. But it was recorded on her machine the same day that Robin Burrell was killed, and Riddick didn’t broadcast Rosemary Fox’s tape until the day after Burrell was killed. Gallo’s people are running tests on the answering machine just to triple-check everything, but Joe has already told me he can tell it’s not a recording being played back. It was live. The same loony who left the message for Robin Burrell and Rosemary Fox left one for this woman on the same day.”

“What’s her name?”

“Allison Jennings.”

I took another pause to think it all over. “Why are you calling me, Peter?”

“I was wondering when you were going to ask that.”

“You can stop wondering.”

“How’s your plate looking, Fritz?”

“My plate is full of wasabi peas. For that matter, my plate isn’t even a plate. My plate is a bowl. Why do you ask?”

“The Jennings woman is freaked out.”

“So you said. I can imagine she is. But she has a boyfriend, Peter. I know you think I’m swell and all, but you’re not calling me up so that I can go comfort her.”

“Margo would have my head on a platter,” he said.

I muttered, “If there’s room.”

“What? Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s nothing. Like you said. A lot of people are freaking out.”

Peter asked, “Can you go see Allison Jennings tomorrow?”

“Why should I do that?”

“It makes no sense that someone completely unrelated to Marshall Fox would get one of these same phone threats that the others got. The police are missing something. I thought you could talk to her, maybe nose around in her life and see if you can come up with the connection. It could be important.”

“I’m assuming the police are already doing that,” I said.

“They are. But that doesn’t mean adding you to the mix might not be helpful.”

“Who’d be paying my freight on this? It can’t be Mr. Gallo and the good people of New York.”

“I’m hiring you. Actually, just call it an extension of the work you did for us vetting the jury in the spring.”

“Did you tell Joe that you were putting me on the trail? I’ve already crossed paths with his lead investigator.” I had the sudden image of Megan Lamb seated across the room, wringing her hands and describing gory details for me. Or rather, for her.

“Gallo knows,” Peter said. “He said what you said. You’re already his shadow on this thing. I got the rap. Anything you uncover, you take to him immediately, blah, blah, blah.”

I sniffed. “A law lecture. At our age.”

“Gallo wants this thing nailed and finished. I mean, who doesn’t? I told you about my granny. Shelly’s got it, too. The heebie-jeebies. To be honest, I can’t shake the ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’ feeling, either. Riddick and Burrell within twenty-four hours. I know there’s been nothing for three days. But maybe it’s the weather and all this snow that has him socked in like it has the rest of the city. That’s the feeling I have. This guy’s holed up, but there’s still unfinished business out there.”

“You’re thinking Rosemary Fox?”

“I was. And now I’m thinking Allison Jennings. I just don’t know. Gallo told me he recommended she get back out of town if at all possible, but she says after just taking the week off for skiing, she’s way too swamped at her job.”

I could hear noise in the background. A child’s screaming laughter and a woman responding. Peter’s wife, Shelly, I presumed.

The attorney lowered his voice. “You know what, Fritz? I don’t want to spook Shelly any more than she already is, but I’ve actually been thinking of getting her and the kids out of the city until this whole thing blows over. I’m sure it’s nerves about the trial. My damn jury is ready to explode, and I’m getting this awful feeling that even if they don’t, Fox is going to walk. Either way, I’m looking at my wife here and I’m thinking, Don’t be an idiot. Some nut is out there. Who knows what he’s thinking? Get her the hell away from here.”