“I don’t like it in here, Barry. It smells like that pine stuff they use to clean restrooms. Smells that way all the time.”

“Other than that.”

“Nobody’s hit me with a rubber hose.”

“They better not. Half the people in this city would run over this place.” Barry leaned closer, as if it made a difference over the phone. “We’re going to get you out of here, Ad, but not too soon. The media are all over this now, but wait till they see some Free Adelaide demonstrations. I’ve got three spontaneous ones all planned. Big one in Central Park.”

“Wow! I wish I could be there, Barry.”

“For a while, it’s better that you’re not.” He looked closely at her through the clear divider, as if assessing damage. “If they mistreated you in some way…” He was looking expectantly at her now.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Barry, all the jump suits aren’t this bright orange.”

“Yeah?” He sat back.

“I’ve seen prisoners in some darker colored ones. More neutrals.”

“I guess they have more than one color, Ad.”

“I’m a natural redhead, Barry. Do you know what this goddamned color does to my complexion?”

“Ad—”

“I know how it must make me look—just hideous!”

“It’s okay, Ad, you look your beautiful self. Cute, the way the suit’s too big for you. The cuddly look.”

“If looking flushed all the time is cuddly.”

“On you it’s cuddly, Ad.” Barry stood up. “I’ve gotta go now. I’ll think of something.”

“I know you will, Barry.”

He smiled at her, and when he left, Adelaide began to cry.

Really.

Three of them. It would take a while, but they could cover most of the places in New York to see if anyone sold the duplicate ring lately, or created it using old newspaper photographs. They divided the list of shops and wholesalers, then split up. Sometimes Beam carried the duplicate ring to show jewelers, sometimes Nell or Looper had the ring.

By the end of the second day, no one had recognized the ring, or the hallmarks or characteristics of whoever had created it. Beam did learn, on his first stop at a small shop in the diamond district, that Nola had it wrong—the ring was worth about two thousand dollars. It was fourteen-karat gold, and the rubies were glass. The diamonds were real, but of low quality. All as Nola had said. Still, two thousand dollars. Because of the gold and the workmanship. That would be wholesale, the jeweler had said. Insure it for three thousand.

So they did learn one thing: The Justice Killer probably wasn’t poor, though maybe not particularly rich.

Another odd thing: Harry’s unearthing seemed to draw Beam and Nola closer together. There the past had been, lying in a casket, and they’d survived the encounter and reburied it. It no longer conveyed ambiguous obligation, and it wasn’t nearly as threatening as the present.

No longer were they haunted.

Later that evening, but well before dusk, Beam was walking with Nola in Central Park. The heat had let up, and there was a nice breeze rattling the leaves overhead. Nola had briefly held hands with Beam, then gently withdrew her hand. They were strolling side by side, but close together. Beam was coming to realize that trust and forgiveness didn’t come overnight.

Nola said, “Some cop’s been hanging around the neighborhood near the antique shop.”

“I know,” Beam said. “I arranged for you to have protection.”

“I don’t think I need it. There’s no reason the Justice Killer would be interested in me.”

“He left that ring in your shop. And he knows how I’d feel if anything happened to you.”

“He’s also scaring away some of my customers.”

“They’re not selling you hot Chippendale and Limoges, are they?”

“I don’t know, Beam. And I don’t ask.” She glanced over at him and smiled. “I’m glad to know you’re learning something about the merchandise.”

“Learning about you,” he said.

They slowed, then stopped, in the shadow of a large elm. No one else seemed to be around. The wind kicked up, bending the tall grass in a field that stretched away toward a low stone wall and Central Park West, stirring the leaves over their heads so they alternated dappled light and darkness like a dancehall’s reflecting mirrored ball. Beam leaned down and kissed Nola on the lips, and she kissed him back, slowly, letting it linger. Thinking about it.

No words afterward. Beam thought, Lani. Almost, I’m sorry.

Almost.

They continued walking along the path. Nola had his arm now, leaning her head lightly against his shoulder. Beam wondered what she was thinking. Was it about Harry? He hoped it wasn’t about the past. They should be thinking about the present and future. They could do that now.

“What’s that?” Nola asked, pointing ahead and off to the left.

Beam looked, squinting into the lowering sun. There were trees there. Movement that suggested people. A park entrance.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Looks like some kind of demonstration.

Even as he said it, he understood what he had loosed.

Melanie settled in before a large tuna melt with fries and a chocolate milkshake. Food comforted her, especially here, in her favorite diner on First Avenue. There was always a pleasant scent of simmering spices here. The help was friendly. There were signed and framed black-and-white photographs of celebrities hanging on the wall behind the counter. Real celebrities. Frank Sinatra, Lani Kazan, Miles Davis. People who created real music.

The tuna was warm, and the milkshake was almost cold enough to give Melanie a headache. She felt better. Some of her anger at again trying futilely to see Richard Simms fell away. At least now, and for the next fifteen minutes, she’d have exactly what she wanted.

The door opened and a man wearing badly wrinkled khakis, a T-shirt lettered FREE ADELAIDE, and worn jogging shoes entered and sat at the table directly across from hers. Melanie’s annoyance meter climbed. There were plenty of other places in the diner to sit, so why did he have to crowd her? She doubted it was her looks—not right now, anyway. Her hair was mussed, she’d been perspiring heavily, and irritation must show on her face.

She glanced again at the lettering on his T-shirt.

“Adelaide Starr,” he explained.

“Ah, the woman who refuses to serve as a juror.”

“She’s my hero,” the man said. He was in his mid-thirties, well proportioned if slightly pudgy, and had his own hair and regular features. Worth talking to, Melanie decided, then reminded herself she’d sworn a private oath to hate all men.

Of course all men weren’t like Cold Cat. They couldn’t be. “She’s my hero, too,” Melanie said. “I don’t think anybody should have to serve on any jury. I think we should just electrocute people like Richard Simms.”

“Forgive my asking,” said the man across the aisle, “but who’s Richard Simms?”

“Cold Cat, the rap art-singer.”

“That guy who killed his wife and walked. Yeah. I don’t dig his music. Sounds like somebody banging his head and scraping his nails on a blackboard at the same time.” The man ordered, only coffee, then turned his attention again to Melanie. “So what do you care about Cold Cat? You glad he’s free to make more noise?”

“Hardly. I think he killed his wife.”

“You and lots of other people. I followed the trial in the papers. Witnesses had him someplace else when she was killed. That didn’t leave the jury much choice but to acquit. Personally, I think if he didn’t do it himself, he hired it done.”

Talking about the trial was bringing back Melanie’s anger. She’d saved Cold Cat’s life, and now he refused even to be in her company. “One witness was currying favor from the police,” Melanie said. “The other hero-worshipped Cold Cat.”

“You think they were lying?”

“Of course they were lying.”

“So how come the jury didn’t see it that way?”

“Why do sheep cross the road?”