"Faked," the congressman said shortly. "You know there's nothing easier than to doctor photos."

"Yeah," Toscana agreed amiably. "Look at the National Enquirer. Elvis don't even look dead half the time. So, Ms. Mosquito-I mean, your aide, there-you think she's in with the people who were controlling Claudia?"

Blessing grimaced. "I don't know for sure. It might be just devotion to duty, but I think she's spying on me for them. She never leaves my side. It was a heaven-sent chance when you called me in and wouldn't let her come with me."

He leaned forward, dark eyes intense. "So now you know. And now you see, Detective? I have to have your help, to make my wife, to make my sister"-he paled slightly at the word-"divorce me."

Chapter Twelve

VINCE TOSCANA HAD NEVER HAD any reason to give nail polish a second thought. But after today, he'd never again be able to watch his wife paint her nails without a shudder. No amount of life on a Philly corner could have prepared him for the scene that met his gaze in the manicure studio.

He stared speechless as the carved mahogany shelf unit that had contained the dozens of nail preparations was gently raised by his crime scene technicians, leaving behind it an incarnadine sea. Just as the ocean contained myriad shades of blue and green, there was now a glutinous pool of multitudinous tones of scarlet spreading across the floor. Carmine bled into ruby, magenta swirled through vermilion, cherry melted into plum. And through it all, glass shards stuck up at random angles, polish sliding viscously down them to join the rest of the drying mess that Vince feared would soon be rigid as vinyl siding.

And at the heart of the horror, curved like a gathering wave, lay the crushed heap of bones and skin that had once been Ondine. Only her toes were untouched, sticking out from the red sea and looking incongruously pale. "Jesus," Vince sighed. "The only way we're going to be able to tell blood from nail polish is when it sets."

As he waited for the technicians to complete their work on the crime scene, he walked through to the consulting room where Karen McElroy's hair still swirled gently in the foot spa, the coppery smell of blood mixing with kelp and mineral salts hitting his nostrils as he bent over her, careful not to disturb anything. The trouble with working for a small department where there wasn't a lot of serious crime was that there was only one team of technicians. Just like always, Vince thought. The poor folk have to wait in line for the rich folk to get seen to first. He wished he could at least restore some small grace to Karen by draining the pink-tinged water, but he knew better than to touch anything before it had been processed by the experts. There was nothing dignified about these deaths, he thought bitterly. Anger began to burn like indigestion in his stomach. Somebody in this place didn't give a damn about human life. And even though he considered most of the people he'd encountered at Phoenix to be pretty damn worthless, they still had a right to their selfish little lives. It was his job to protect them, and so far he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

Fresh determination burned inside Vince as he gazed down at the murdered beautician. He was going to put a stop to this killing spree. And if that meant slamming every last one of these spoiled people in the county jail, then he'd damn well do it. Vince turned on his heel and marched through to the nail studio with a new sense of purpose.

Hilda yanked open another drawer. She didn't think Claudia had ever thrown anything away in her life. The banks of filing cabinets filled the entire walk-in storeroom that opened off the spa director's luxurious personal office. It was like an archaeological dig, ploughing through it. But although she'd found business correspondence dating back more than twenty years, brochures from every establishment Claudia had ever worked in, and folders stuffed with letters from grateful clients, Hilda still hadn't found what she was looking for. Somewhere, she knew, there must be Claudia's secret stash. She'd made it her lifetime's work to get something on everyone she thought she might possibly make use of, and Hilda knew her well enough to realize it would be somewhere accessible. No bank vaults for Claudia; she'd have wanted her leverage where she could gloat over it at her leisure.

Hilda sighed. Another file of correspondence. She probed farther back in the drawer and came across a thick manila folder marked "College." Curious, she pulled it free and opened it. To her amazement, it was stuffed with mementos of Claudia's years at Brown. There were handbills for plays and concerts, notes from fellow students, ticket stubs for movies and football games, even a faded corsage, pressed and preserved to recall some distant evening. Hilda was amazed. She'd never have credited Claudia with so sentimental an attachment to the past.

Fascinated, she flicked through the folder's contents, misty-eyed at the memories it evoked. She was sure they'd been to that performance of Love's Labour's Lost together. Yes, she remembered now. They'd gone on a double date with those two seniors that they'd met at the Harvard-Yale football game. Claudia had spent the whole evening sulking because the more handsome of the two boys had clearly preferred Hilda. Hilda's present smile was pure malice at the recollection.

Right at the back of the folder was a thick wallet of photographs. Suddenly, Hilda's memory provided its own snapshot. Claudia, filled with delight over her parents' Christmas gift, one of the new Kodak Instamatic cameras, gathering her friends into groups and making them pose for pictures. "Smile, everybody!" had become the words most often on Claudia's lips that semester.

Intrigued to see what had survived of her own past, Hilda opened the flap and pulled out the faded color photos. The first half dozen were an assortment of girls from the dorm. Hilda herself appeared in three of them, her hair perfectly lacquered in a beehive, showing off her small, neat features to their maximum advantage. Her face relaxed as she drifted back in her mind to those cozy dorm chats, drinking hot chocolate and eating cookies late at night, girls perched on narrow beds and pillows on the floor, gossiping about their lives and loves. They'd still believed the world was theirs for the taking, convinced the golden days would run forever. God, she wished she'd known then what she knew now.

The next picture hit Hilda's nostalgic mood like a cold pool after a sauna. Claudia had framed her subjects perfectly. They were leaning against a car. Hilda was in profile, head thrown back, mouth open in laughter, her arms thrown around the slim hips of the boy who was pulling her close to him, his own narrow, triangular face grinning sheepishly at the camera. "Tad Blake," Hilda hissed, her lips pulled back tightly over her teeth.

She had forced Tad Blake from her memory with the systematic efficiency she'd brought to every area of her adult life. The foolish conviction that she'd been in love, the fumbling passion that had left her life in ruins, Tad's refusal to accept that her nightmare was anything to do with him, his protestations that she couldn't expect him to believe he was the only one she'd given herself to-it had all been consigned to a section of her memory marked "Do Not Enter." The temptation to rip the photograph to shreds was almost overwhelming. But she controlled herself. She didn't want torn photographs in the office trash to tell their tale to any passing police officer. She grabbed the photograph and stuffed it in her pocket. She'd dispose of it later, somewhere its remains wouldn't be found.

Her action revealed the next photograph in the bundle. It was Tad again, but this time he was the one seen from the side. An involuntary gasp escaped Hilda's mouth. Her mind rebelled. It couldn't be. Could it?