Megan checked her watch. “I’ve got one-thirty-six, Mr. Riddick.”

Riddick muttered again; this time Megan caught it. “It’s Lamb, right?”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask you a favor, dear? If it’s all the same to you, can you not fuck with me at this precise moment in time?”

Gallo had freed himself. Megan dropped a dollop of sugar into her voice. “Lieutenant Gallo can speak with you now. Please hold.” She clamped her palm over the mouthpiece and held it to her chest.

Gallo asked, “What are you doing?”

“At this precise moment in time, I’m fucking with him.”

ZACHARY RIDDICK’S EYES MOVED from Joe Gallo to Detective Lamb, where they lingered a few seconds. Megan entertained an image of whipping her elbow up into his nose. Instead, she maintained a deadpan expression.

Gallo spoke. “Afternoon, Zachary. I don’t recall if you’ve met Detective Lamb? Detective, this is Zachary Riddick.”

“You’re the girl who killed the Swede, right?”

The question landed in Megan’s stomach. “I’m not the girl who did anything,” she said evenly.

“Right. My apologies. You’re the woman who killed the Swede. I wasn’t aware you were back on the force.”

Gallo stepped across the threshold. “Are you going to invite us in, Zachary?”

“Of course.” Riddick stepped back, pulling the door the rest of the way open. “Straight ahead. They’re in the living room.”

Megan’s eyes remained fixed on her boss’s back as she went through the doorway. Riddick enjoyed her profile as she passed. With a low hum, he made sure she knew it.

The detectives followed a short hallway that opened up into a large room dominated by a spectacular view of the thick Central Park plumage. Seated on a tan leather couch was Marshall Fox. He was dressed in jeans and an open-collared blue shirt. His long legs were crossed. He was wearing a pair of mud-red armadillo boots and was picking at the pointy toe of one of the boots, as if trying to scrape away the scales and open up a hole. He looked up as Gallo and Megan Lamb entered the room. My God, Megan thought. He really is a handsome devil, isn’t he?

Fox smiled wanly. “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho.” Megan recognized the obscure novelty song of several decades previous. Rising from a matching leather armchair was Alan Ross, director of programming for KBS Television. He shot a pleading look at Fox. “Marshall.”

Fox lowered his boot to the floor. “Yes, dear,” he grumbled in a deliberately nasal monotone.

Ross stepped forward, hand extended. He aimed first for the senior detective. “Lieutenant Gallo. Nothing personal, but it would be nice if we could stop meeting like this. Thank you very much for coming.”

The two shook hands. Gallo nodded tersely. “This is Detective Lamb. She’s lead investigator in the Blair and Rossman killings.”

Riddick had stepped into the room. He took up a spot against the entry wall, arms crossed, a slightly bemused look on his face. Ross and Megan shook hands. “You both know Marshall, of course,” Ross said.

Fox rose from the couch, addressing Gallo: “No offense, Detective. But you probably could have gotten a lot more out of me the last time we met if you’d brought Miss Lamb along.” He crossed to the couple. “Marshall Fox, ma’am.”

“How do you do, Mr. Fox?”

“On balance? Does the phrase ‘I’d rather be having a voluntary root canal’ give you an idea?”

“Marshall.” Ross’s tone was a bit less pleading this time. The executive addressed the detectives. “Please have a seat. I know you two are busy. We’ll keep this as brief as possible.”

Riddick remained standing until the others had settled in. Taking an eye cue from Ross, the lawyer crossed to the couch, giving Fox a comradely pat on the knee as he sat down next to him.

The lawyer began. “Marshall has some information he would like to pass along to the authorities.” Fox opened his mouth to speak, but Riddick waved him off. “Hold up. Before Mr. Fox shares this information, we would like an assurance that this is a private conversation.”

“That’s fine,” Gallo said. “Except this isn’t a private conversation. Detective Lamb and I haven’t dropped by for tea. You have something you would like to share with us, Mr. Fox?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Riddick held his hands out as if a herd of cattle were bearing down on him. “Detective, we are making a voluntary statement here. On our own initiative. All we’re asking is that we don’t open the paper tomorrow and see the details of Mr. Fox’s statement splattered across the front page.”

“I’m not in the business of doing reporters’ work for them,” Gallo said.

“I’m not saying you specifically, Lieutenant.”

Gallo turned to Megan. She noted the light in his dark eyes. He said, “Are you and Jimmy Puck taking bubble baths together again, Detective Lamb?”

Megan had pulled out her notebook and flipped it open. She produced a ballpoint pen and clicked it. “I’m ready for your statement, Mr. Fox.”

Riddick blurted, “Wait. Hold on. We need to be on the same page here.” He turned to Ross. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Alan.”

Fox muttered, “I could use a drink,” and fell back on the couch, bringing his boot back to his knee and recommencing his excavation work.

Alan Ross cleared his throat. Megan had the sense that the executive had agreed to Riddick launching the conversation but was now pulling rank. The sense came as much from Ross as it did from the way in which Riddick let his arms drop to his sides with a poorly veiled petulance. If she needed confirmation, Fox provided it, mimicking Riddick with a pat to his knee.

Ross began. “Lieutenant Gallo, you know this from the last time we met. But for Detective Lamb’s edification, I am here as Marshall’s friend, not as a representative of the network. The network’s investment in Marshall as one of our most valuable talents is immaterial to my being here. I want there to be no sense of corporate coercion at play, you understand? I’m here on behalf of my friend. I probably don’t even have to be saying this, but just in case, I’d like us to at least be on that same page.”

He took the opportunity to give Zachary Riddick one of his repertoire’s less generous smiles, then continued, “My wife and I are responsible for Marshall having come to New York in the first place. I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences in telling you that Marshall has had more than his share of occasions over the past several years to wonder if gracing our city with his presence has been worth it to him in the big picture. Fame might look pretty fabulous from the outside, but Marshall will be the first to tell you that some of the costs can make a person wonder if it’s all worth it.”

From the couch, Fox cracked, “Alan, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Hold the tears, bubba.” Ross turned back to the detectives. “Lieutenant Gallo, Detective Lamb. I don’t mean to be making a speech here. I’ll shut up in a second. It’s just that you both know full well how huge Marshall is in the public eye. One of the downsides of being so huge is that you make an awfully easy target if someone decides it’s worth their while to take a shot at you.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “That’s what’s happened to Marshall.”

Gallo cut in. “Are you referring to the rumors, Mr. Ross?”

“The rumors?”

“About Mr. Fox and the Blair and Rossman killings.” Gallo turned to Fox. “No offense, but my wife and her cronies are thinking of checking you out for the Lindbergh baby at this point.”

Fox held up his hands. “Hey, I never touched the kid. I don’t even like kids.”

“We’re aware of those rumors, yes,” Ross said. “They’re part of the price of being a celebrity these days. But no. The reason we’ve asked you here concerns something more substantial. This isn’t about the Rossman woman at all, who, by the way, Marshall has no connection with whatsoever. Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. This concerns Cynthia Blair.” He paused, looking at Fox.