Richard.

The man she loved. One of the few men she’d ever loved. Dead.

The thought was so burning that she couldn’t lie still. Finally, she got up and plodded into the kitchen. The tile floor was cool on her bare feet, and cold air spilled out on her when she opened the refrigerator to get the carton of orange juice.

She sat at the table, her feet up on the chair’s rungs to keep them off the tiles, and sipped juice from the carton. It helped, but not much. Made her feel a little steadier.

Then she looked over at the sink, with its empty beer can, and last night’s takeout pizza box propped on the drain board. Tonight’s supper might be exactly the same.

Lonely damned life. Miserable life.

She thought morosely that if anybody should have been killed, it was that coward Knee High. Maybe he’d get the death penalty for murdering Edie Piaf. He certainly hadn’t been Richard’s friend, sleeping with his wife, killing her, then sitting in court knowing Richard was innocent and watching him suffer, his very life in the balance. Edie Piaf. She’d deserved to die for betraying Richard. What fools some women were! She, Melanie, would never have betrayed such a man, a poet of the streets, a major figure in modern music.

Melanie realized that tears were tracking down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the backs of her fingers and took another sip of cold juice. The refrigerator clicked and its motor began to run, making something glass inside vibrate shrilly with a regular rise and fall, as if taunting her.

A cruel trick had been played on her. She’d been Richard’s fierce and persuasive advocate on the jury and actually believed in his innocence. The jury foreperson who instinctively knew he was too good a man to be a murderer. Now, ironically, she was the one who’d set him free only to be killed by a fool who’d shared most of the other jurors’ misimpressions.

Melanie pushed the juice carton away and rested her cheek on the cool, hard Formica table. “Life is so unfair and unpredictable,” she said in a choked voice. But no one was there to hear.

So goddamned cruel!

So this is how it feels to have a broken heart.

“The word is you’re in love,” Beam said to Nell.

They were walking along First Avenue, sipping lattes from Starbucks, on their way to meet Looper near Cold Cat’s apartment building so they could do follow up interviews and double-check some facts—the kind of drudge police work you don’t read about in mystery novels.

Nell sidestepped a frail, gray woman walking a dog that might have been a horse except for the fangs. Protection. “Whose word would that be?” Nell asked. “Looper’s?”

“Among others. He’s close enough to you to notice.”

Is it that noticeable? “The word could be wrong, otherwise there wouldn’t be much use for our kind of work.”

Beam grinned. “Is the word wrong?”

“Gossip doesn’t become you, Beam.”

“Becomes no one,” he said. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Why do you have to know if I’m in love?”

“I like you. I want to know so I can feel good about it.”

“You’re so full of bullshit, Beam.”

“Sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t be of much use in our kind of work.”

They waited for the traffic signal at Fifty-sixth and First, not speaking.

“Okay,” Nell said, as they were crossing the intersection. “I guess there’s no point in trying to keep a secret from you. Answer’s yes. I’m in love. Now what? Do I get flowers?”

“Not from me. I respect you too much to love you. So who’s the lucky guy?”

“Terry Adams.”

“Don’t know him,” Beam said, after a pause.

“That’s because he’s not a cop.”

“Good.”

“He’s an actor.”

“My, my.”

“And he repairs appliances.”

Beam broke stride, then took a sip of latte. “Your air conditioner. It’s working now.”

“Same guy,” Nell said.

“Didn’t he ride with some of the cops in the Two-Oh a while back, doing research so he could play a cop on Broadway?”

“Near Broadway. Said that’s as close as he wants to get.”

“To Broadway?”

“To being a cop.”

“Smart fella. You and an actor. I can see it. He treat you okay?”

“Wouldn’t put up with him if he didn’t.”

They walked for a few minutes without speaking. “You’re right,” Beam said.

“About not putting up with him if he acts up?”

“No. Well, yes. Also right about something you thought but didn’t mention.”

“Ah!”

“That your love life is none of my business.”

They’d reached Cold Cat’s building. A uniform was still standing outside, helping the doorman shoo away curious fans.

“Here we are,” Nell said.

“Exactly where JK wants us.” Beam glanced around. “He might even be here with us.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with you,” Nell said. “You’re on a roll.”

57

“You on your way to talk to my mom and dad?” Gina asked.

She was wearing blue shorts, a ragged gray sweatshirt cut off at the armpits, and white jogging shoes that could use a turn in the washer. Her body was slim and lithe and well toned, Nell noted with a twinge of jealousy. Youth.

“Not really,” Nell said. “They told me on the phone you weren’t home. Said you’d gone running. I’ve been waiting around out here for you to turn up.”

Sunlight illuminated a low haze hanging in the warm air, either the result of exhaust fumes, or dust from construction in the next block. Every few minutes distant jackhammers beat out the frantic clatter of machine guns. Traffic was streaming past, and Gina, with her shorts and casual hipshot pose, attracted a few horn blasts, a male shout of…what? Admiration? More like verbalized testosterone.

“Why me?”

“So we can talk more freely.”

That seemed to pique Gina’s interest. She shifted her weight to the other slim, tanned leg.

“I wanted to talk to you about Carl Dudman’s death,” Nell said.

“My family’s already talked about that. I’d think you’d be more interested in that rap star getting killed.”

“No, it’s Dudman I’m interested in. And I want to know how you feel.”

Gina shrugged. “I’m glad he’s dead. He was the person most responsible for Bradley Aimes walking out of the courtroom a free man even though he murdered my sister. It isn’t any secret. We’ve told the police and the media as much.”

“Do you see the Justice Killer as some kind of hero?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Gina frowned and gnawed on her lower lip. “I would admit I’m grateful for what he did.”

“Do you know a man named Terry Adams?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Did Genelle ever mention him?”

This time Gina thought a long while before answering. “If she did, I don’t remember. It’s possible that she knew him, whoever he is. We didn’t have all the same friends.”

“But would it be safe to say most of your friends knew both you and Genelle?”

“Most, yes.” Gina cupped her waist with her hands and began jogging in place, causing some bouncing action beneath the baggy sweatshirt. “Whoo! Whoo!” yelled a guy from a passing car.

“What’s this all about?” Gina asked, ignoring her motorized admirer. “You suspect this Terry guy?”

“No,” Nell said, maybe too quickly, judging by the way Gina was staring at her. “We just want to make sure there was no connection between him and Genelle. Or between him and you, for that matter.”

“I’m sure I don’t know him, and I don’t think Genelle did. But we can never be sure about Genelle. The only thing I know about her for sure is that I miss her. You know how people say they become sad because after a while they can’t recall precisely what the people they grieve looked like?”