Like what? he asked. Beethoven?

"Enigma," she said. "The Screen Behind the Mirror."

"Please…"

But today she was sitting there with her virginal legs stretched out in front of her, and a little into the aisle, nicely encased in nylon; and she wore a thin white sweater like a fifties movie star.

He thought of sexual asphyxiation and tried to talk about Gйricault's The Raft of the Medusa, and also keep his sports jacket appropriately draped as the erection came and went. He could imagine this blank-eye blonde on a bed, the long, groove of her spinal column leading up her back to her neck, her head arches in orgasm and the rope in his hand…

By the time he left for Ellen Barstad's studio, he was in a hurry, his worries about the gravedigger investigation pushed to the back of his mind. He needed to see her now.

In his hip pocket, he carried his rope.

LANE CALLED: "LUCAS, I got him coming out of the building, heading to the car. Good shots. I'm gonna take it over to a one-hour place-I oughta have big prints by the time you get out of there."

"Good, but have you talked to Marcy? We're a little hung up on Randy," Lucas said.

"Yeah, I talked to her. They haven't worked anything out yet, but having the pictures can't hurt."

"Okay. You just do the pictures. You say he's out of the place?"

"He is, and he's moving your direction. He's in a hurry."

Lucas, Del, Marshall, and Gibson were huddled in the middle office with two TV monitors, both hooked to the same camera and each with its own tape deck; a couple of Bose speakers; two tape recorders; and four separate cell phones.

Lucas picked up his phone and called Barstad next door. "Ellen, he's coming. Now, if it doesn't work, if it gets uncomfortable, throw his ass out. If he won't go, yell for help. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Don't worry, Lucas. I'm going to hang up now…" And she did.

"Crazy chick," Gibson said.

They couldn't see her: She was in the bedroom, and there had been no place for a monitor. Even if there had been, Lucas was worried by the privacy problem: A camera pointing at the bed didn't seem right, though Barstad hadn't seemed bothered by the concept. They'd finally decided that the room was simply too small and sparsely furnished. Qatar had been there several times, Barstad said; they didn't want to change the style just to hide the camera. The only camera was hidden behind the grille of a return-air vent at the front door, from where it could sweep the room.

Gibson could change the sound from one mike to the next with a simple slide switch. The microphones were sensitive enough that they could hear Barstad moving around, could hear the refrigerator open, could hear her flush the toilet.

"One more mike, we could hear her pee," Gibson said.

"That's what we want to put in front of a jury," Del said. "Our witness taking a leak."

Marshall disapproved. "I worry about this girl. She thinks she knows what she's getting into, but she doesn't. She ain't a hell of a lot more than a child."

"She says he doesn't carry a gun, he doesn't carry a knife. If he goes to get a knife, she'll scream her head off and we'll be there in twelve seconds."

The twelve seconds wasn't a guess. They'd timed it.

"That's a long goddamn time if somebody is cutting your throat or hitting you on the head with a ballpeen hammer," Marshall said.

"Yeah, well… So I'm worried too. This is what we've got, and I think we're ninety-seven percent okay," Lucas said.

DEL HAD MOVED out to the front while Lucas and Marshall argued; Qatar drove a green and silver Outback, and from the silvered window, Del could see the entire parking lot. The waiting grew uncomfortable as they listened to Barstad moving around in her apartment. Then Del said, "He's here."

Lucas was speed-dialing Barstad. She picked up, and he said, "He's here. You know how to call us."

"I know. I'm ready." She was gone.

"He's out of the car," Del said. He stepped away from the window and headed back toward the office. "Here we go."

"Oh, shit-look at this," Gibson said. He was staring at the monitor. They'd heard Barstad step away to the bedroom after she hung up the phone, and now, five seconds later, she was back-and she wasn't wearing a stitch. She was walking toward the door and the camera.

"Jesus," Lucas said.

Del picked up the tone and bent around the monitor to look. "She must have goose bumps the size of watermelons," he said. "You know

… she's… jeez. She's not bad. All natural."

She glanced up at the camera as she got to the door, and Lucas thought she might have been smiling. "Fuckin' crazy goddamn…"

BARSTAD OPENED THE door and said, "Come in quick. It's a little cool."

"Mmm," he said. He fitted a hand around her hip and they kissed, long and carefully. As they broke apart, he said, "You look nice. The cold is nice for your nipples." He reached out and gently pinched one, and the slight pain caused her to breathe in, sharply, quickly. She said, "James, I really need something here."

"So do I," he said. He had the cord in his pocket, but for now, forgotten. She had taken his hand and was pulling him back toward the bedroom.

"Wait," she said. "The bedroom's so dark." She went to the wall, where a futon unfolded over a couch rack. "Help me," she said.

Together they pulled the futon off the rack and threw it on the floor, and she began tearing at his clothing. He was saying, "Wait, wait wait…" as she pulled at his shirt and then at his belt. He was staggering around with his pants down around his ankles when she caught him in her mouth, and he started to laugh and tried to push her away and finally collapsed on the futon.

"GOD HELP ME," Gibson said. "Look at this."

"This could be a problem," Lucas said. "This could be a problem. Christ, the defense attorneys will put this on and they'll impeach the shit out of her."

"I don't know," Del said. "She's so up front about it. Maybe she'll just tell them she likes… Oh, Jesus."

"Maybe she likes it, but on television?"

Marshall backed out of the office. "This is over the edge."

"The guy's kinda hung," Gibson said.

"You think so?" Del asked. "I was gonna say he was a little small."

As sex always does, it ended, with Barstad and Qatar lying on the futon. The camera wasn't good enough to tell, but the cops imagined that both of them were covered with sweat and out of breath; they thought that because everybody in the monitoring room was sweating and out of breath. Lucas could smell them all.

BARSTAD, NEARLY RECOVERED, said, "James. You were ready. What have you been doing? You were really excellent."

Qatar smiled at her, but his ears tingled: There was a false note there, a kind of patronizing overtone. He'd never heard it before. He said, "Thank you. You can get me… seriously turned on."

"Do you like slapping me?" she asked. There it was again, that tone.

"If you like it," he said. "I think I like the Ping-Pong paddles better."

She made a little moue. "That just made my bottom hurt, and I didn't get to see it."

"But I got to see it," he said. "And it more than made your bottom hurt."

"We're past that," she said. "Moving on."

"Moving on sooner or later," he said. He stood up. "I'm going to run back to the bathroom. Back in a sec."

FROM CULVER'S OFFICE, they could hear him in the bathroom, the water running in the sink. On the television monitor, Barstad lay with her back to them, but once or twice peeked over her shoulder in the direction of the camera.

"She's really getting off on this," Del said.

"So am I," said Gibson. "I wonder what her date calendar looks like."

"Ya oughta keep your goddamn mouth shut," Marshall snapped at Gibson. Lucas said, "Hey," and Marshall said, "Goddamnit, Lucas, she's the spitting image of Laura. If I'd known this-"