'I don't think so. You're here to answer our questions,' Donovan said, though Kovich appeared not to have any. 'Where were you when Paige was shot at? We place the time of the incident at about six o'clock.'

'I was trying to find her. I knew she was in danger from Trevor.'

'Where exactly did you go to find her?' Donovan asked skeptically. 'I assume we can verify who you talked to.'

Mary knew the detective was getting into the time period when Jack was with Brinkley. She wondered if Jack would tell the detectives about him. It would help Jack's cause but put Brinkley on the hook. Taking evidence from a crime scene; interfering with a police investigation. They could charge Brinkley with obstruction of justice.

'Mostly I called around, from my hotel,' Jack answered, and Donovan snorted in derision.

'You were so worried about your daughter that you picked up the phone and made a few calls?'

'It was my only option. I would have gone to look for her but I didn't know where to start, and I wasn't free to walk around the city, not with the press after me everywhere I went.'

'Got it.' Donovan nodded, and if a nod could be sarcastic, this one was. 'So you sat in your hotel room and called people. Who did you call?'

'Her apartment. A few photographers.'

Jack was making it up as he went along, and even Mary

could see it. He wouldn't betray Brinkley, and though she admired him for it, she considered doing it herself. The choice between Jack and Brinkley wasn't an easy one, but there was no way Donovan would believe them now anyway. Exposing Brinkley wouldn't accomplish anything but hurting him.

'So you made some calls to photographers,' Donovan was saying. 'What did you find out?'

'Nothing. I didn't reach anybody. I left messages everywhere I could.'

'Did you call nine-one-one, like you did after you killed your wife?' Donovan shot back, but Jack kept his cool.

'I told you, I didn't kill my wife. And no, I didn't call nine-one-one about Paige.'

'Why not, if you thought she was in mortal danger?'

'There wasn't time and I thought I could handle it myself.'

'Why would you think that, Mr Newlin? You have police training? Firearms, self-defense, and whatnot?' Donovan cocked a thin eyebrow, and Mary guessed he was trying to learn if Brinkley was involved.

'No training, but she's my daughter. I was the one who put her in jeopardy. I was the one who was going to get her out of it.'

'By making phone calls?' Donovan half smiled. 'That means your phone records at the hotel would back you up.'

'Yes they will,' Jack answered quickly, though Mary knew they wouldn't. It was time to interrupt.

'Detective,' she said, 'you've asked enough questions to make it clear you have no evidence to support a charge of attempted murder against Mr Newlin. It's the middle of the night, and Mr Newlin is exhausted and in need of medical attention. This fishing expedition is over. Release my client.' Mary rose to her feet, but Donovan stepped forward.

'Ms DiNunzio, you don't tell us when we're done, we tell

you. Your client is on bail for a murder charge. Now he's a suspect in an attempted murder of someone who may be a witness at his trial. So we got him on the attempt, obstruction charges, and witness tampering. We can hold him until we check his phone records and we will.'

Mary and Jack exchanged looks. They both knew it was true, and in the morning the D.A. would probably have Jack's bail revoked. He'd be in prison until the trial, unless she could free him. Mary was on her own again, without him. She had come full circle. But it was different now, for lots of reasons. Not the least of which was that she was certain of his innocence and that her attraction to him had become undeniable, maybe even mutual.

'So I agree with you, the interview is over. But you're the one who's leaving, Ms DiNunzio.'

Mary rose to her feet. 'You want to question Mr Newlin further, you call me first. Nobody goes near him without me there. You get him the medical attention he needs. In the morning I'm filing a motion with the court complaining of police harassment.'

'Somehow I knew you would say that,' Donovan shot back, and Kovich got up and opened the door.

Mary noticed he avoided her eye when she walked out.

Dwight Davis stood with Captain Walsh on the other side of the two-way mirror. Davis felt fresh despite the late hour, but Walsh rested an arm wearily against the molding around the mirror, which looked onto the interview room like a window. 'This case is gonna kill me,' the captain said wearily, watching Kovich recuff Newlin through the window. 'I don't work this shift anymore.'

'Lighten up. Cap.' Davis grinned, his legal pad hugged to his chest. He watched the two-way mirror as if it were great TV. 'We caught Newlin in another lie, and as soon as I talk to the Chief, he'll pick up an attempted murder charge. I gotta find a way to get this before a jury. This man is going down big-time.'

'Newlin's not the problem,' Walsh said under his breath, but Davis picked it up.

'Who then?'

'What?'

'Who is the problem?'

Walsh sighed. 'Brinkley.'

'Brinkley?' Davis's neat head snapped from the window. 'You think he's helping them?'

'I can handle it.'

'Shit!' Davis was pissed. The fuckin' cops. From time to time he had to remind them who ran the show. Unlike lots of D.A.s, he didn't kiss up to the department. 'Cap, I'll be straight with you -'

'Hold the lecture, counselor.'

'No. If I find out that Brinkley had anything to do with Newlin or DiNunzio, I'll charge him with aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact, anything I can find. I will not have a rogue cop undermining my prosecution.'

'Brinkley's not a rogue cop, for Christ's sake,' Walsh shot back.

'Get him in line, or I will/ Davis said, and walked out.

54

It was early morning when Mary hit the sidewalk outside the Roundhouse and waded into the throng of media. Despite the cold, their numbers had swelled from the night before. Trevor's death and Jack's arrest had whipped them into a frenzy. They mobbed her, clicking motor drive cameras, screaming questions, and thrusting videocams and bubble microphones into her face. They fogged the air with steam and filled it with noise and action.

Mary put her head down and barreled ahead, remembering TV footage she'd seen of her boss, Bennie, running the same gauntlet. Odd to think she was doing it now, too. Was this really her? And was it progress? Wasn't she really better off whining about her job? Reading the classifieds? Daydreaming about the life of a manicurist? At least on this case, she knew the answer.

She ran to the corner. She knew she couldn't get another cab and she hadn't convinced the one that had brought her here to wait. Brinkley couldn't risk coming out in daylight to pick her up, and so she'd had to plan ahead. She had, by checking the schedule. The white SEPTA bus rumbled by, this one spray-painted all over with DEGAS AT THE ART MUSEUM, and she ran for it, her briefcase bumping at her side.

The bus genuflected at the bus stop, a misnomer if there ever was one, but the pause did give her time to be seen in the driver's rearview mirror. The sight of a passenger running flat out usually cued SEPTA buses to zoom away, but this one stayed put. Either it took pity on her because of the media after her like a swarm of killer bees, or the driver didn't know the rules. She caught up with the bus, her

chest heaving in the cold air. Its doors folded apart with a familiar rattle-and-slap, and she grabbed the steel handrail and leapt aboard. In Philly, real lawyers rode buses.

Mary watched two of the news vans take off after the bus, but the morning rush had started and in time one got lost in it. She slipped into a knit cap she had in her pocket, picked up a transfer slip, and got off the bus at the stop, then transferred to the C to get home. Nobody would suspect she was on the C. Nobody would bother with the C. It was the least suspicious bus route in Philadelphia. She watched the remaining news van get stuck in traffic, following the wrong bus, and she headed home. It would take her a little longer by bus, but it gave her time to think.