It probably would have been a rougher ride for Mr. Fein, but by coincidence, the D.A.'s office used this very same press conference to release indictments against several high-ranking members of the mayor's administration along with a hint that the "tentacles of corruption" – their phrase – may even reach the big man's office. The media, an entity with the collective attention span of a Twinkie filled two-year-old, immediately focused on this shiny new toy, kicking the old one under the bed.

Carlson stepped toward me. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Not now," I said.

"Your father owned a gun," he said.

His words rooted me to the floor. "What?"

"Stephen Beck, your father, purchased a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. The registration showed that he bought it several months before he died."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I assume you inherited the weapon. Am I correct?"

"I'm not talking to you." I pressed the elevator button.

"We have it," he said. I turned, stunned. "It was in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. With the pictures."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Carlson gave me a crooked smile.

"Oh right, I was the bad guy back then," I said. Then, making a point of turning away, I added, "I don't see the relevance."

"Sure you do."

I pressed the elevator button again.

"You went to see Peter Flannery," Carlson continued. "You asked him about the murder of Brandon Scope. I'd like to know why."

I pressed the call button and held it down. "Did you do something to the elevators?"

"Yes. Why did you see Peter Flannery?"

My mind made a few quick deductions. An idea – a dangerous thing under the best of circumstances – came to me. Shauna trusted this man. Maybe I could too. A little anyway. Enough. "Because you and I have the same suspicions," I said.

"What's that?"

"We're both wondering if KillRoy murdered my wife."

Carlson folded his arms. "And what does Peter Flannery have to do with that?"

"You were tracking down my movements, right?"

Yes.

"I decided to do the same with Elizabeth's. From eight years ago. Flannery's initials and phone number were in her day planner."

"I see," Carlson said. "And what did you learn from Mr. Flannery?"

"Nothing," I lied. "It was a dead end."

"Oh, I don't think so," Carlson said.

"What makes you say that?"

"Are you familiar with how ballistic tests work?"

"I've seen them on TV."

"Put simply, every gun makes a unique imprint on the bullet it fires. Scratches, grooves – unique to that weapon. Like fingerprints."

"That much I know."

"After your visit to Flannery's office, I had our people run a specific ballistic match on the thirty-eight we found in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. Know what I found?"

I shook my head, but I knew.

Carlson took his time before he said, "Your father's gun, the one you inherited, killed Brandon Scope."

A door opened and a mother and her teen son stepped into the hall. The teen was in mid-whine, his shoulder slumped in adolescent defiance. His mother's lips were pursed, her head held high in the don't-wanna-hear-it position. They came toward the elevator. Carlson said something into a walkie-talkie. We both stepped away from the elevator bank, our eyes locked in a silent challenge.

"Agent Carlson, do you think I'm a killer?"

"Truth?" he said. "I'm not sure anymore."

I found his response curious. "You're aware, of course, that I'm not obligated to speak to you. In fact, I can call Hester Crimstein right now and nix everything you're trying to do here."

He bristled, but he didn't bother denying it. "What's your point?"

"Give me two hours."

"To what?"

"Two hours," I repeated.

He thought about it. "Under one condition."

"What?"

"Tell me who Lisa Sherman is."

That genuinely puzzled me. "I don't know the name."

"You and she were supposed to fly out of the country last night."

Elizabeth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. The elevator dinged. The door slid open. The pursed-lips mom and her slumped adolescent stepped inside. She looked back at us. I signaled for her to hold the door.

"Two hours," I said.

Carlson nodded grudgingly. I hopped into the elevator.

Chapter 40

"You're late!" the photographer, a tiny man with a fake French accent, shouted at Shauna. "And you look like – comment dit-on? – like something flushed through the toilette."

"Up yours, Frederic," Shauna snapped back, not knowing or caring if that was his name. "Where you from anyway, Brooklyn?"

He threw his hands up. "I cannot work like this!"

Aretha Feldman, Shauna's agent, hurried over. "Don't worry, Francois. Our makeup man will work magic on her. She always looks like hell when she arrives. We'll be right back." Aretha grabbed Shauna's elbow hard but never let up the smile. To Shauna, sotto voce, she said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't need this crap."

"Don't play prima donna with me."

"I had a rough night, okay?"

"Not okay. Get in that makeup chair."

The makeup artist gasped in horror when he saw Shauna. "What are those bags under your eyes?" he cried. "Are we doing a shoot for Samsonite luggage now?"

"Ha-ha." Shauna moved toward the chair.

"Oh," Aretha said. "This came for you." She held an envelope in her hand.

Shauna squinted. "What is it?"

"Beats me. A messenger service dropped it off ten minutes ago. Said it was urgent."

She handed the envelope to Shauna. Shauna took it in one hand and flipped it over. She looked at the familiar scrawl on the front of the envelope – just the word "Shauna" – and felt her stomach clench.

Still staring at the handwriting, Shauna said, "Give me a second."

"Now's not the time-"

"A second."

The makeup artist and agent stepped away. Shauna slit open the seal. A blank white card with the same familiar handwriting fell out. Shauna picked it up. The note was brief: "Go to the ladies' room."

Shauna tried to keep her breath even. She stood.

"What's wrong?" Aretha said.

"I have to pee," she said, the calmness in her voice surprising even her. "Where's the head?"

"Down the hall on the left."

"I'll be right back."

Two minutes later, Shauna pushed the bathroom door. It didn't budge. She knocked. "It's me," she said. And waited.

A few seconds later, she heard the bolt slide back. More silence. Shauna took a deep breath and pushed again. The door swung open. She stepped onto the tile and stopped cold. There, across the room, standing in front of the near stall, was a ghost.

Shauna choked back a cry.

The brunette wig, the weight loss, the wire-framed spectacles – none of it altered the obvious.

"Elizabeth…"

"Lock the door, Shauna."

Shauna obeyed without thought. When she turned around, she took a step toward her old friend. Elizabeth shrunk back.

"Please, we don't have much time."

For perhaps the first time in her life, Shauna was at a loss for words.

"You have to convince Beck I'm dead," Elizabeth said.

"A little late for that."

Her gaze swept the room as though looking for an escape route. "I made a mistake coming back. A stupid, stupid mistake. I can't stay. You have to tell him-"

"We saw the autopsy, Elizabeth," Shauna said. "There's no putting this genie back in the bottle."

Elizabeth's eyes closed.

Shauna said, "What the hell happened?"

"It was a mistake to come here."

"Yeah, you said that already."

Elizabeth started chewing on her lower lip. Then: "I have to go."

"You can't," Shauna said.