"Not that I know of."

"Where were you Thursday night?" Romero asked.

"Thursday, lemme think," I said, as if I had to remember. "I think I was home."

"You think?"

"I'm positive. What difference does it make where I was?"

"We got Rebecca Daniels's autopsy results in yesterday. She had Ketamine in her system as well as extremely high levels of GHB, otherwise known as liquid Ecstasy. She could've ODor somebody could've slipped the drugs into a drink."

"Hold up," I said. "If you think I had anything to do with Rebecca's death»

"You admitted having your hands around her throat, and we got two witnesses, Raymond Ramirez and Carmen Stappini, who say you and Daniels had been fighting a lot lately."

"I want a lawyer," I said.

"You're not under arrest," Romero said.

"I don't care," I said.

"Look, if you want to know the truth, I don't think you killed your girlfriend," Romero said. "But until we're sure who killed Charlotte O'Dougal and Ricardo Alvarado, all options are open."

"I'm telling you," I said, "I don't know anything about any of this, and that's the God's honest truth."

"Did Rebecca mention anything unusual happening in her life lately?"

Glazer asked.

"Unusual?" I said.

"Maybe someone had threatened her or tried to blackmail her?"

I had to catch my breath, but I coughed into my hand to cover it up.

"No," I said.

"Did Rebecca ever mention a guy by the name of Kenny Farrini?"

"Who?" I asked.

Glazer repeated the name.

"Nope, never heard of him," I said believably. "Why? Is he dead too?"

I prayed the answer would be yes.

"Farrini's alive and well," Glazer said. "He was I guess what you'd call an associate of Ricky's. They were smalltime con artists, and they both have long rap sheets. We've been questioning Farrini, but so far he hasn't given us much."

"I have absolutely no idea who he is," I said.

The cops seemed to be finishing up searching the apartment. I breathed deeply, hoping this would signal to the detectives that it was time to wrap things up, but Glazer and Romero didn't budge.

"There's another theory we're toying with," Romero said. "As I'm sure you recall, Rebecca's friend Raymond Ramirez claimed that Rebecca had told him she thought you were having an affair with that girl Angie Lerner."

"So what does that have to do with anything?" I said.

"I already spoke with Ms. Lerner, and she confirmed she wasn't having an affair with you," Romero said, "but maybe Rebecca somehow mistook this Charlotte for Angie and killed her in a jealous rage."

"I guess it's a possibility," I said.

"But the questions remain," Romero said. "Why did she go down to the East Village to kill this woman? How did she get the idea she was Angie? And how does Ricardo Alvarado figure into all of this?"

"Maybe you're better off with your drug theory," I said.

"Maybe," Romero said. "But Charlotte O'Dougal wasn't a dealer she was a heroin addict, and there wasn't any evidence of heroin in Rebecca Daniels's system. It's hard to see how drugs could connect them."

I shook my head, as if stumped. Romero and Glazer exchanged I guess we should go now looks, and then they both stood up.

"Sorry if we interrupted your grieving," Romero said, maybe sarcastically. "We'll definitely be in touch."

After the cops left I bolted the door and remained in the foyer, listening to hear if they were going to talk to Carmen again. I didn't hear a bell ringing or any voices, and I was satisfied that the detectives had left the building.

The apartment was a mess. Drawers and closest doors had been left open, and some of Rebecca's stuff was still strewn on the floor. I figured I'd clean later. I'd sweated a lot during the past hour and needed a shower desperately.

I turned on the water as hot as I could stand it, and I used the shower's massage mechanism, but I couldn't relax. There had definitely been sarcasm in Romero's voice he knew I wasn't grieving as much as I should be after my girlfriend's suicide, and he suspected I was somehow involved. I imagined the detectives going to talk to Kenny again and accusing him of killing Ricky. If they put enough pressure on him, or even took him in and started beating the crap out of him, he'd turn over the pictures of me, and that would be it.

Then I started replaying the events of Thursday night. I remembered how Charlotte's phone call had awakened me on the couch. Rebecca could've listened in on the conversation on the bedroom extension. Then Rebecca wouldn't have needed to follow me downtown, because she'd have known I was going to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. When I came home, I'd seen Rebecca in bed, but I recalled how after I left the bar I'd walked for a while in the rain. Rebecca would've had time to kill Charlotte, then return home before I did.

Other details that had confused me were suddenly clear. Rebecca's motive for suicide was more understandable now, since she was probably reeling from killing Charlotte the night before. Rebecca's mother's non reaction to her daughter's death also made sense, given the humiliation that Rebecca's trial had probably brought her.

As the water beat down against my head, I imagined Rebecca stalking Charlotte in the rain. Rebecca was gripping the steel sharpener, maybe concealed inside her coat. As Charlotte approached her building, Rebecca had probably rushed up behind her and forced her way inside. I pictured the steel sharpener going into Charlotte's bony back and her body crumpling onto the floor. Then I imagined Rebecca standing over the body with a gleeful, crazed expression before walking away in the rain.

The shower water was still very hot, but I got chills anyway, thinking about how Rebecca could've easily killed me during one of our fights, or while I was asleep.

I turned the dial on the shower massage to its strongest level. The firm, single stream of hot water kneading into my back and neck muscles still couldn't relax me.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Barbara said.

"Yeah, sure it is," I said.

I was getting dressed in the bedroom when the buzzer on the intercom sounded again. Now what the hell did the police want?

Deciding that this time I'd definitely refuse to let them into the apartment, even if it meant getting arrested, I said into the intercom,

"What is it?"

"New York Post," a man's voice said.

Shit, I should've realized that the media was going to be all over this story.

"No comment," I said.

As I walked away, the buzzer sounded again. I ignored it and went back into the bedroom and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. That Post reporter was still ringing the buzzer, and I realized he wouldn't give up until I gave him some kind of statement. I put on sneakers with no socks and left my apartment. Approaching the vestibule, I saw a young blond guy with his finger on the buzzer to my apartment. Beyond this guy, behind the other door leading to the outside, there seemed to be about ten other people.

I opened the inside door and the small crowd rushed into the vestibule through the other door. They all seemed to be speaking at once, pointing mikes in my direction, shouting questions.

"All right, all right," I said. When they quieted down I said, "Just go back outside and I'll make a statement."

The reporters started to move back outside when I heard someone approaching behind me. I turned around and saw it was Carmen. She was hunched over with her chin tilted up, glaring at me.

"What's going on now?" she said.

"Nothing," I said.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she said. "The cops were here before, and now all these reporters are here, causing a racket."

"Please just go back into your apartment," I said.

"Why do I have to go back into my apartment? This is my hallway as much as it is yours. I've been living here thirty-seven years. I can stand wherever I want to stand."