Susannah looked down at her shoes. “Precisely. I was looking for a different kind of education, and here was a man who presented himself as the crash course. So I never went back to Boston. I moved in with Chris-who turned out to be a pot-dealer, a television repair shop janitor, and sometimes, when he was in the mood, a novelist. Of course, all I focused on was the novelist part-even though he never let me read a word. For a sheltered Smith girl, he was Jack Kerouac. Until he raped me."

I'm sure she had been saving this for the right moment. Both Paul and Richard did the exact same thing: lowered their drinks and averted their eyes, as if ashamed for the entire male sex.

“Oh, he made such a fuss about apologizing, blaming the drink, his frustrations with being unknown. But nothing could explain away the act. The first chance I had, I ran to a nearby diner and called my father to beg his forgiveness and ask for train fare home. But my mother answered. It turned out I was too late."

“He came looking for you?” asked Richard.

“No. He'd already dropped dead from a stroke."

Susannah took a sip of her drink. I noted how much care she took not to leave any of her lipstick on the glass. Must be hard to drink that way.

“When I arrived home, I found my mother had pulled a Sylvia Plath."

Paul and Richard said nothing. They lowered their heads even further.

“But then I discovered Dad had forgiven me, in his own way. Weeks after I'd told him I was staying in New York, he had his will changed, and I soon discovered I was a half-million dollars richer."

“That was all he had left?” Paul asked. “For an inventor of something as important as…” He faked a pause, as if struggling to remember. He was trying to make her give away an extra detail.

It didn't work. “No, that was all,” Susannah said, and took another clean sip from her glass. “The government basically stole the patent, and probably gave him a million to shut him up. Part of me didn't even want to take the money-I didn't enjoy earning it through my parents death, or for that matter, that my father had earned it inventing a tool that sent thousands to their deaths in Vietnam."

“The guilt must have been awful,” Richard said.

Thank God I wasn't the one conducting this case. I couldn't imagine spending any more than 20 minutes with this drama queen.

Paul said, “And you took the money."

Susannah shot him a pair of icy daggers. “Yes, I took the money. I had nothing. And I wasn't going to refuse my late father's apology."

“Was that necessary, Mr. After?” asked Richard.

“I'm sorry if I offended either one of you,” Paul said. “I'm simply trying to establish motive.” He looked directly at Susannah. “Besides, I think I know where your story is headed. Out of the blue, your East Village friend catches wind of your windfall and takes the next cheap bus up to Boston to try for a second chance at love. With a fist or a pistol, if necessary."

“No,” said Susannah, looking pleased with herself. “I never saw the boy again."

“Then who's after you?"

“Oh,” she said, then laughed to herself. “You thought the man after me was… him? Please. No, no, Mr. After, I didn't have Richard bring you all the way from Los Angeles to protect me from a scummy painter boy. We've hired you to protect me from a professional killer."

Boy, I thought. Professional killers were everywhere this time of year.

“Come again?” Paul asked.

“Of course, I didn't know he was a pro at the time. He was all fancy French wines and exotic meals at first. He told me he was an international banker. Only later did I realize his most recent target was an international banker. That's how he knew so much about the lifestyle. He was-is-a professional chameleon."

“What's his name?"

“The name he used? Roger Adams. I'm sure it's fake."

Paul took the opportunity to stand up. I was suddenly thrown off by the sudden change of perspective. Even flashed up on the screen of the hotel lobby, sudden motion always gave me a touch of vertigo.

“Ms. Winston, can you tell me anything about the daily schedule of this Adams? I happen to know a great deal about these types of men…"

Understatement of the year!

“…and it would help to understand his habits."

“I didn't see him often enough to learn a routine. You see, I've been traveling for a while. I mean, was. Travel brought me to Philadelphia, and to Richard."

The sap smiled as if this was some sort of personal achievement.

“Right after my parents died, I decided I wanted to see the world. I met Roger months later, in Paris, while I was staying in a small artists’ tenement. The rent was cheap, and the conversations-the ones I understood at least-were phenomenal. Everyone I met was either a novelist, or a painter, or graphic designer…"

Was there a pistol in this hotel lobby? I asked myself. Can I put myself out of my misery now?

She went on at length about the wonders of café life, and how she was completely bedazzled by the Great and Powerful Roger Adams, and what they ate for dinner (shark), and what they drank afterward (vodka gimlets), and what pretentious poetry they talked about (Auden)… To his credit, Paul let her ramble. I guess he didn't want to insult her again. Or maybe she lulled him to sleep. Her beloved Richard Gard, I noticed, was looking droopy around the eyes. Paul waited until she talked herself dry before nudging the conversation back towards the topic at hand.

“And you saw him only once in Paris?"

“Yes, but we met up many, many times after. He traveled a lot on business and I found myself tagging along. It was fun and it gave my traveling a kind of purpose. I felt alive again. Until reality reared its ugly head."

“When did you first realize?” Paul asked.

“When I found the gun in his suitcase, and the dossier."

Ah. Now here's where Ms. Winston was tripping herself up. And I didn't need Paul's expertise to know it. Pro killers didn't carry a pistol, singular; they carried a portable arsenal. Knives, clips, guns, poisons, knucks, the works. And a dossier? Yeah. Unless it's tattooed onto their lower intestine for emergency reference, all the pros I've encountered never kept written info on their person. It was memorized, or locked away in a safe location.

Of course, Paul knew it too. I could sense him smirking. “A dossier?"

“Yes. Photographs, addresses, social security records-everything."

Paul nodded. “Where were you when you made this discovery?"

“In Dublin. I'd been dying to go ever since I read Portraits of the Artists as Young Men. I've long loved Joyce-and art history. Especially the chapter about Picasso."

“Ah, yes,” Paul said. “It's a classic."

My God. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? One look at Richard Gard supplied my answer. Gard wouldn't know James Joyce from a Rolls Royce.

Then again, I wondered if Paul would.

Susannah continued, “We stayed at the Westbury, of course. Roger slipped out for a couple of paperbacks for the plane home, and I was bored sitting in the room all by myself. I let my eyes wander."

Richard Gard suddenly spoke up. He'd probably been dying to talk for the past ten minutes. “And that's when you found the gun."

“And the dossier,” Paul added.

“Yes.” Susannah paused for the requisite amount of time. “I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to play the innocent, and ask Roger about the things I'd found when he returned. But then the sane part of me took over. I knew he'd kill me once I'd found out. Then I heard the room key turn in the lock.

Richard actually winced.

“It was Roger, of course. I slid the files back into his briefcase and nudged the briefcase off the side of the bed, praying it wouldn't make too loud a noise, or flip over and spill its contents. But thankfully, it didn't. Just one thump, which the sound of the door closing again completely covered.