Chapter One

Crown Jewels had been robbed. It had happened before. It was sure to happen again. But the magnitude of the crime had barely begun to sink in.

Ever since I arrived, at ten minutes to six in the morning, the store had been swarming with police; detectives asking questions, lab technicians dusting for finger prints and crawling around on the floor collecting hair samples, and uniformed officers standing around trying to look busy.

Shortly after seven o'clock, the local press arrived, followed an hour or so later by network correspondents and writers from the Associated Press and UPI. Many of the reporters had set up their base of operations in vans outside, turning the north parking lot of the Calvary Mall into a jungle of coaxial cables and tripods. Others hung around the mail entrance, with cameras aimed through the glass doors and iron bars, voyeurs trying to catch a glimpse of the activity inside. All of them were waiting for someone, namely me, to come out and make a statement. For the time being, they were going to be disappointed.

To make matters worse, Harvey Bannister was missing and the conclusion was inescapable. He must have been involved.

Harvey was the night security guard, and had been with the store longer than anyone else. He had been there in the days before Alphonse Crown, the founder of Crown Jewels, sold the business to Silvers United. He was there when Jonas Silvers, the current chairman of the board, had started working in the store for his father when he was an eighteen year old college student.

Admittedly, Harvey was no saint. He drank too much, sometimes when he was on duty. He spent most of his free time at the race track where it was not unusual for him to loose an entire week's pay in one afternoon. And it was deemed unwise for any of the female staff members, myself included, to turn their backs on him. Still, despite all of his faults, it was hard to believe that Harvey would...

Betray us. It felt like a betrayal. A close and trusted member of the family had violated the trust we had placed in him.

But I couldn't do anything about that now, and dwelling on it was not getting my work done. I turned my attention back to the stack of printouts on my desk.

I had been sitting in my office for the better part of four hours, pouring over the last nightly inventory and comparing it to the one taken this morning. I had started out feeding the descriptions of all the missing merchandise into a spreadsheet, but after a few pages, I had decided that it would be much easier and less time consuming to use the inventory print out and simply cross off the items that were still here. Someone else could create the computer file later. One definition of management is the ability to delegate.

I still had half of the inventory left to cover. Very much against my will, a press conference was scheduled in half an hour and I had a splitting headache. At that moment, I would have given just about anything for a double martini, an aspirin, and...

"Tuna sandwich or quiche?" Schuyler van Dorn was standing in the doorway, holding two Styrofoam containers.

Schuyler's thick, wavy brown hair was streaked with auburn from working in the sun. He had the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, which I would have noticed if I weren't married. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a pale yellow shirt and a burgundy tie with yellow stripes. He always looked a little out of place and uncomfortable in a business suit. I always imagined that he would be much happier in jeans and cowboy boots. But he looked good.

"I'll take the quiche," I said, thankful for the distraction.

Schuyler put the containers on the desk, checked the contents and handed me the appropriate one. Then he sank into one of the big leather Wingback visitors' chairs with a sigh.

"You look like hell, Pagan," he said. He was the only person I knew who bothered to pronounce my name correctly, with the stress on the second syllable.

"Thank you," I replied. "All things considered, looking like hell is better than I'd hoped for. how's it going out there?"

"Lets just put it this way. Be glad you have an excuse for hiding out in your office." He picked up his sandwich and pondered it. He turned it over, pulled back one of the slices of bread, gazed for a moment at the filling, then dropped the whole thing back into the container. "They found Harvey."

"So soon," I muttered through a mouthful of quiche.

"Yeah," he said. For the first time, I noticed the peculiar expression on his face and I braced myself for anything he might say next. "Everyone was so busy, so concerned about the main vault. No one bothered to check the other one. It was locked, so, no one bothered to open it. He's dead. They shot him and left him in the vault."

For a moment, I couldn't comprehend what he was saying. It didn't make sense. An instant later, I understood, and it felt as though I had been hit by a wrecking ball. I couldn't catch my breath.

Schuyler picked up the Styrofoam box from the desk and dumped it into the trash. I couldn't blame him. I'd lost my appetite, too.

We sat for a moment in an uneasy silence, neither of us knowing what to say and not wanting to say anything. Suddenly, Schuyler slammed his fist on the desk, stood up and started pacing the room.

"Dammit, all morning, I've been cursing him. I've been walking around here cursing him under my breath and wondering how he could do something like this. And all the time..."

"I know," I said, fighting tears. I stood and walked around the desk to where he was standing. "You're not alone. Everyone's been feeling the same thing. No one could have known."

I turned, went to the window and looked out. It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. In the flower bed under my window, pink moss roses and lavender petunias in full bloom mingled with the bonsai junipers in the crushed red rock. The trees swayed a bit in a gentle breeze. If I had opened the window, I would have heard birds singing. But those things had no place here.

Finally, I surrendered to myself and let my tears fall. I didn't feel up to fighting them any longer. Schuyler came across the room, slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close.

Schuyler knew me better than anyone at Crown Jewels. Anyone else would certainly have assumed that the news about Harvey had been too much, and would have tried to comfort me with meaningless words.

In part, it was true. I was crying for Harvey. But there was more to it than that, and Schuyler knew it. He just held me and let me cry.

"Do you want to talk about it," he finally asked. He put his hands on my shoulders and held me away from him so that he could see my face.

I shook my head. I already missed the strength of his arms around me, the feeling of his body next to mine. I tried to push these things from my mind. I tried not to feel them, but I could feel myself being drawn back.

Neither of us heard the door open. "Excuse me, Miss Brock," someone said.

I jumped back. For a moment, I had the irrational fear that I would look up and my husband, Jack, would be standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips and a look of reproach on his face.

But that was ridiculous. Jack was in Chicago, hundreds of miles away. Even if he had been in town, he hadn't come to Crown Jewels for any reason in years. And besides, Schuyler and I were just two friends comforting each other in a difficult time. I tried to convince myself of that.

I forced myself to look. The man at the door was a police officer. He was nearly bald, with little tufts of white hair sticking out behind his ears. Behind his thick glasses, there was no joy or kindness in his coal black eyes. His face was pale and drawn, his mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown that created deep lines from the corners down to his chin and pushed his lower lip out and slightly over the upper. His shoulders were hunched and his head held forward. His arms dangled not at his sides, but in front of his body. He reminded me of a very tall Quasimodo.

"Yes," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"Sorry to bother you, Ma'am," he drawled. "I'm Sgt. Hilliard. We met earlier this morning."

"Of course," I said, although I didn't remember him.

"If you have a minute, the lieutenant wants to talk to you."

Chapter Two

I followed Sgt. Hilliard down the long corridor from my office. We passed the repair shops and workrooms where the soft mechanical roar of the equipment and the slightly rancid smell of heat that always emanated from those rooms were conspicuously absent. We passed the big double doors that led to more offices, and beyond those, the shipping and receiving department. Further down the hallway, the accounting office should have been, but wasn't, a hub of activity.

We crossed the sales floor, where the display cases stood empty and dark. The few employees who had not yet been sent home were standing around, shaking their heads and trying to comprehend what had happened.

Hilliard led me into one of the viewing rooms off the main sales floor. The room had been commandeered first thing this morning as a field office for Lt. Charles Shapiro, who was in charge of the investigation. Field office was his polite way of saying interrogation room.

I sat down across the table from Shapiro, a tall, lanky man of about fifty. He had a long, sharply pointed nose and very small eyes. In his black suit and starched white shirt, he looked like some diabolical mortician from a sixties b-grade movie.

"Good afternoon, Miss Brock," he said. When he smiled, I noticed that his teeth were yellow and very crooked, and what might or might not have been a friendly gesture on his part put me immediately on the defensive. I supposed that that could be an advantage when questioning suspects.

But I had nothing to hide, so why was I reacting that way?

"Call me Pagan," I said, and smiled back, hoping it looked genuine.

He frowned. "Pagan. That's an interesting name."

I had the sudden urge to start explaining. Instead, I just nodded. "Thank you." I sat back in the chair, crossed my legs and tried to look comfortable. It took considerable effort.

Shapiro watched me, stared at me for a moment. I wondered what he was looking for. Some nervous habit he could use later to measure whether I was telling the truth or lying. A nervous lick, daring eyes? As much as I hated to disappoint him, I caught his gaze and locked on to it. He seemed to take it as a challenge and it made him uncomfortable. One point for the home team.

I dealt with men like Shapiro on a daily basis. They are intimidated by the idea of a woman with power. It threatens their sense of security and their concept of masculinity. The only way to get around that was to stand up, issue a challenge and earn their respect. Shapiro was easier than most. It took only a few seconds before he picked up his notepad and started fumbling through it.

"I've been talking to your boss," he said, still consulting his notes, running one long, skeleton thin finger down the page. "Mr. Silvers." He looked back at me, waiting for a reaction.

"Yes," I said.

"He had nothing but the highest praise for you."

"That's nice."

"Tell me. Who has the combination to the vault?"

"I do," I said, "and Jonas does."

"Jonas?"

"Mr. Silvers."

Shapiro smiled again. This time it could not be mistaken for a friendly smile. "You call your boss by his first name. That's interesting."

"Not particularly," I said. "I'm the manager of the store as well as vice president of the subsidiary corporation that owns it. Jonas and I work closely together. And I've known him for twenty years."

He made a note on his pad. "You've worked here for twenty years?"

I was insulted. "I've worked here for ten years," I said. "Prior to that, I was a customer, and prior to being a customer, I came in with my parents quite often."

"Oh." Shapiro leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. "Who else?"

I had to think for a moment what he meant. "All of the department heads have the first two numbers of the combination, and the security personnel have the last number."

"What is the purpose of that."

"In case of an emergency, if neither Jonas nor I could make it in to the store, someone would have to open the vault."

He frowned. The logic of this precaution escaped him. "So except for you or Mr. Silvers, it takes two people to open the vault."

"Yes."

"The vault is connected to a special alarm."

"Yes. Its a time activated alarm. After business hours, both combination dials have to be turned at the same time to deactivate the alarm."

"What's the purpose of that?" Shapiro made a show of scratching the bridge of his nose and Sgt. Hilliard, who had been leaning against the wall near the door, left the room.

"What do you mean?"

"Most time lock vaults can't be opened at all until... a given time. Why is this one different?"

"Generally," I said, switching into my lecture mode, "vaults like you're talking about are found in banks. This is an entirely different kind of business. There are situations where a customer might need something on short notice after hours, or, especially, on a holiday. We're here to please the customer, Lieutenant."

"Commendable," he said. He folded one hand over the other and laid them carefully on the table. He cocked his head to one side. "There was a lot of merchandise taken. Tell me about it."

I smiled warmly. I wanted to say that I had better things to do and please get to the point. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you want to tell me."

I just love open ended questions. "Well, just about everything was taken. I guess the thieves weren't too picky."

"You say thieves. What makes you think there was more than one?"

"Well," I said, trying to keep the grin off my face, "for one, as I was just telling you, it takes two people to open the vault after business hours. But the dead give away? I've seen the surveillance tape. There were two people on it."

Shapiro's face hardened. I was mocking him and he didn't like it. "What's your educational background?"

"I have a year of college and a degree in gemology."

"That would be from..."

"The Gemological Institute in New York."

"A trade school."

"Something like that."

"No college degree," he murmured, and raised one eyebrow. When he did that, the corner of his mouth turned up involuntarily. The result was a sort of amused scow. That kind of limits your possibilities for advancement, doesn't it?"

"Not particularly," I said.

"You're qualified to do appraisals?"

"Yes."

Shapiro looked like the cat that ate the canary, so full of self satisfaction that he was about to burst. "You had the combination to the vault, the security code. I assume you had that?"

I nodded.

"You had the combination, the security code, and the knowledge of the jewels." He counted these things off on the fingers of his right hand, with a theatrical flip of the wrist as he made each point. "Tell me, do you make much money?"

"Not that its anyone's business," I said, "but I live quite comfortably."

Shapiro pulled a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jacket and a small magenta colored lighter from the side pocket. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, put it in his mouth and lit it. "But not comfortable enough, right?" He blew the smoke out through his nose. "You work your fingers to the bone day in and day out, and just don't get the appreciation you deserve. You've always felt that Jonas owes you more. Am I close?"

"No, you're not," I said. "Just what point are you trying to make?"

"Maybe you and your friend Jonas had a little lovers' spat and you wanted to get even with him?"

I couldn't listen to any more. I stood up. "First," I said, still smiling, "its impolite to light a cigarette in the presence of a lady without first asking her permission." I reached across the table, took the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out in the ashtray. "Second, I don't care what you say about me, because I'm here to defend myself. But I will not sit by while you defame Jonas Silvers. And finally, making these unfounded accusations is a serious business. You should know better. If you insist on doing so, you'll have to talk to the company's attorney. I'll get you his card. Now, if there's nothing else, I think this interview is over." I started toward the door.

"There is one more thing, Pagan." The way he said it gave me the chills. I regretted giving him permission to use my first name, but imagined that he would have presumed to do so anyway.

I turned. "What?"

"Are you married," he asked. He had leaned back in his chair, his folded hands now in his lap.

"Yes."

"You're not wearing a wedding ring. Why?"

I glanced down at my hand for no reason. I knew that the ring wasn't there. "I lost it," I said.

"Oh. Your husband must be very upset. When did it happen?"

"Last week," I said. "Why do you ask?"

Shapiro shrugged. "Just wondering."

I walked out of the room and slammed the door.

Chapter Three

I pulled my Mercedes into a parking space outside the apartment building. I'd had the nagging thought for hours that I was forgetting something important, and I tried one more time to remember what it was. I couldn't, so I shut off the car and got out.

I stood for a while, looking around. I was stalling. I really didn't want to be here, but it was something I had to do.

I took a piece of paper out of my purse and checked the building and apartment numbers one more time, then started up the sidewalk.

From the street, this had looked like it would be a nice place to live, with attractive red brick buildings surrounded by big old pine trees. In fact, it reminded me of the building where I lived when I started working at Crown Jewels. But here, in the heart of the complex, I saw something very different.

At eight o'clock on a warm summer night, I would have expected to see children playing and splashing in the swimming pool. Instead, I saw murky water with algae and dead leaves floating on the surface. There was a discarded and rusting bicycle laying in the grass, with one flat tire protruding onto the cracked and buckling sidewalk. The pine trees that looked so magnificent from the street, from here were brown and dying. A few scraggly impatiens and marigolds were fighting valiantly for life among the vine weeds in a bed of cracked dirt baked hard in the sun.

I could hear the steady rhythm of rap music coming from an apartment on one of the upper floors, and on the other side of the courtyard, the sound of a violent argument. I recognized the woman's voice. It was Glenn Close. I listened more intently and realized that the people in the apartment were watching Fatal Attraction. These were the only signs of human life.

I reached the door to building four and picked up the security phone. I looked at the chart on the wall next to it and dialed the number I wanted. Nothing happened. I replaced the receiver in the cradle and tried the door. It opened.

In the entry way, I could smell the sick-sweet smell of marijuana mixed with other things I would rather not contemplate. The walls were covered with graffiti detailing who loved whom and suggesting several vulgar and physically impossible things that others should do to themselves. Empty beer cans and moldy fast food wrappers littered the floor, and despite being careful of where I walked, by the time I got to the steps, I had gotten a damp napkin stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I scraped it off on the step and started up.

Someone on the second floor apparently cared about what the place looked like. The garbage here had recently been swept into a large pile in one corner. I could still see the lines of the broom in the dust on the stained hardwood floor.

I found apartment number 244 and knocked on the door. For a long time, there was no answer. Just when I was about to give up and try calling at a later time, I heard the bolt turn, and the door opened.

I had met Amelia Bannister about five years ago at the company Christmas party. I remembered her as a strong looking woman, a little plump, and terminally cheerful. I suspected that the free beer at the party had contributed significantly to the last of my observations. I don't know what I had expected to see when the door opened, but I was taken aback.

The woman standing before me looked frail and weak, despite her rotund figure. There were black rings around her eyes and black tracks down her cheeks where her mascara had run. Her shoulder length gray hair hung in oily clumps and she wore a dirty burnt orange house coat.

"Mrs. Bannister," I said. "I'm Pagan Brock."

"Of course, Dear," she said, stepping aside to let me by. "Come in."

I stepped into the apartment. At first glance, the little living room looked unkempt and dirty, but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was just old. The carpeting was worn and the mesh backing showed through in many places. The drapes, which hung to the floor over the sliding doors to the balcony, were faded to a dirty shade of bluish-gray . There were rusty water marks on the ceiling and running down the walls.

"Have you met my daughter," Amelia asked.

"No," I said.

"Sharon, Honey," Amelia said to the woman sitting on the couch, 'this is Ms. Brock. She's... She was..."

"I'm the manager of Crown Jewels," I said.

Sharon did not change her expression. She continued to stare at the bushy spider plant in the corner as she held out her hand. "Sharon Bannister," she said. Her voice was high pitched, like that of a little girl, and she spoke so softly that I could barely hear her.

I shook her hand briefly, then she pulled it back. She picked up one of the threadbare throw pillows and hugged it tightly to her chest. Her gaze had not shifted.

Sharon was a simple looking woman , average in appearance and appearing average in intelligence. I had the distinct impression that staring into comers was not a reaction to grief, but a way of life for her. She wore a pair of navy polyester slacks, the type worn mainly by elderly women, an old brown floral blouse, argyle socks and no shoes. Her mousy brown hair was cut short in a no-nonsense, easy to care for style.

I turned back to the mother.

"Can I get you a cup of tea, Dear," she asked.

"No, really, I don't want to impose."

"Not at all, " she said and ambled off to the kitchen.

I tried not to look around. I already felt as though I were intruding, but being curious by nature, I couldn't help myself. Other than a few plants and an oddly shaped orange ash tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, the room was almost completely void of any of the personal possessions that make a place look like someone lives there.

There were three photographs in simple frames on the built in bookshelf on the wall that backed the kitchen. The largest of these was an old black and white wedding photo. Harvey, looking young and dashing in an ill-fitting tuxedo, stood with his arm around Amelia, looking almost beautiful in her white gown and veil.

Next to that was a family portrait. Judging from the clothing, I guessed that it was taken in the mid-fifties. Harvey and Amelia, looking a little older and not quite as happy, each held a child on their lap. The little girl, about seven, whom I assumed to be Sharon, was looking up at her father with an odd expression that I couldn't identify. Amelia was holding a little boy of three or four. He didn't look quite right. There was no real expression on his face, no sparkle in his eyes.

Another picture, taken around 1975, was more telling still. The people in the picture were gathered in a fight group, yet Harvey seemed to be standing apart from them. Sharon stood next to her mother, but was looking at her father, her expression grim, almost angry. The boy, or man, was kneeling in the foreground, and next to him was a young woman, apparently his wife. Two small children, about one and three, sat obediently on the floor in front of them. No one in the picture was smiling.

"Cream or sugar in your tea," Amelia called from the kitchen.

"Sugar, please."

In a moment, Amelia returned and handed me a cup. She caught me still staring at the photograph.

"That's my son, Aaron, " she said with a hint of sadness in her voice. "And his wife, Lisa. They were killed in a car accident ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"He was such a handsome boy. Always so happy." Her smile said that she knew it was a lie, but she liked the illusion. "Harvey and I raised their children after that. Sharon helped out, too. She lives here with us." When she realized that she had once again spoken of Harvey in the present tense, her hand went over her mouth, and she turned her head away from me. "I mean..."

There was nothing I could say, so I just tried to look as sympathetic as I could.

"Its so hard to believe," she said.

"I'm very sorry about your husband, Mrs. Bannister," I said.

"Yes."

"He was a good man. We'll all miss him."

Amelia brushed a fresh tear from her cheek. "Yes, I'll miss him, too. But maybe..." She turned away.

"I just wanted to tell you that, if there's anything you need, or anything I can do to help you, just let me know."

Amelia nodded with her back to me.

I put the tea cup on the table, took a pen and pad from my purse and wrote down my name and number, and left it on the table next to the cup. I let myself out.

Chapter Four

It came to me when I pulled into my driveway a little after nine o'clock. There was a light on in the living room. Jack. He'd gotten back this afternoon from Chicago, where he had been teaching a law seminar. I was supposed to pick him up at the airport.

I put the car in the garage and walked slowly to the house, rehearsing what I was going to say. I knew that any explanation I came up with would be insufficient.

Inside, Jack was sitting on the couch in a gray and black sweat suit, with his feet up on the coffee table, reading the evening paper. He didn't look up when I came in, but shook the newspaper to get my attention. "Forget something," he asked coldly.

"Sorry," I said, "but I had a lot on my mind." I decided not to mention that 'no feet on the coffee table' was his rule, and that he was in violation of it. I dropped my purse and briefcase on a chair and went into the kitchen.

I put two pieces of bread in the toaster and leaned against the counter to wait. I had never finished the quiche, and my last meal had been at six-thirty last night. I was beginning to feel weak.

Jack walked in, carefully folded his newspaper, and put it down on the kitchen table. There was a large color picture of the Crown Jewels storefront on the front page. The banner headline read 'No Leads in Overnight Robbery, Multimillion Dollar Inventory Stolen.'

"I think we need to talk about this," Jack said. His voice was as sharp as a diamond edge saw. He was not talking about Crown Jewels.

"Not until I've had something to eat," I said. "I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm hungry. I don't think I can carry on a civil conversation right now."

Jack walked slowly up to me. He leaned over until his face was just a few inches from mine. "Now," he bellowed.

The force of that one word startled me. "Okay," I said, turning away defensively. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. "Lets talk."

He straightened up, but did not step back. He had me where he wanted me, pinned against the kitchen cabinets. When he spoke, his words were measured and menacing. "You have a responsibility to me. I am your husband. Are you telling me that you just forget about me?"

"Yes," I said, trying to meet his tone. "I forgot."

He crossed his arms over his chest and swayed his head in a manner that mocked all women. "Well, isn't that a fine how-do-you-do?" He lowered one arm and raised the other so that his extended index finger was less than an inch from my face. "Did you just forget to pick me up at the airport or did you forget that you were married altogether?"

That hit a little close to home. "I won't even dignify that with a response," I said, praying that my eyes wouldn't betray my thoughts.

Jack turned on his heel and walked to the table. He picked up the newspaper and held it up. He pointed to the picture of Crown Jewels. "Sometimes I think you care more about that damned store than you do about me."

"Well, Jack," I said, "when you act like this, I do." I knew before I started talking that it was the wrong thing to say, but I couldn't help it.

"You know, the only reason I let you keep that damned job in the first place," he said, crumpling the newspaper into a little ball, "was because I thought after a while, you'd get bored with it."

"Let me!" I could feel myself going out of control and tried to hold back.

"Yes, let you. But every day, you get more and more obsessed with it. I am getting sick and tired of you leaving for work early every morning and staying late every night. When I married you, I expected to have a wife, not a roommate that comes and goes as she damned well pleases." He threw the little ball of newspaper at me. I batted it out of the way and it landed in the sink. "Just once, I would like to come home and find dinner waiting on the table. Just once, I'd like for you to be here and say, 'Hi, Honey, how was your day.' But when has that ever happened? I'll tell you. Never. Not even once."

"Are you through," I asked. "Because this argument is getting old and I'm fired of hearing it."

He screwed up his face and moved his mouth silently. This was meant to annoy me, but it didn't work. In fact, it would have been funny if I hadn't been so furious. "I haven't even started yet. Even when you're home, you're not really here. You bring a damned stack of paper work home every night and work until its time to go to bed."

"And what about you? You do the same thing."

"We're not talking about me," he said, and took two steps toward me. "My job is important. If I have work that has to get done, I do it. People are depending on me. And, I don't have to defend myself to you."

"Oh" I said, "but I have to defend myself and my work. That's fair."

"Are you implying that your job is somehow equal to mine," he asked. "You sell jewelry to hoity-toity rich bitch snobs. I'll tell you a secret. They might be all smiles and friendly when their in the store. But do you know what they really think of you?"

"I'm sorry, Jack," I said, lowering my head in mock humility. "I beg your forgiveness. I, the lowly sales clerk, bow before you, the almighty lawyer."

"You are impossible," he growled. "When was the last time we actually sat down and talked?"

"I thought we were talking now."

"You know what I mean."

I sighed. "Jack, as I recall, the last time we had a real conversation was on our first date. After that, you only had one thing on your mind and you didn't want to talk anymore."

"Well, I can see that you're not going to be reasonable tonight. Maybe we can work this out another time, Peg."

I took a deep breath and started counting to ten. He only called me Peg when he was in the mood for a really good fight. The kind that last until two or three in the morning. One ... Two ... Three... He's just trying to make you angry. Four ... Five ... Six... Don't give in to it. Seven ... Eight ... Nine... He's not worth it. Ten.

I took the two pieces of toast from the toaster. "I'll be sleeping in the guest room tonight," I said. "If you want anything, forget it. The door will be locked."

"I think that's a very good idea," he muttered

Chapter Five

Jack left for work before I woke up. When I went downstairs, I found a note on the kitchen table. It said, 'We'll finish the discussion tonight.' A pleasant thought to get me through the day.

I made a pot of coffee and went upstairs to shower and get dressed while it was brewing. All the time, the same things were running through my mind. Harvey and Amelia, and Jack and me. Would we end up like them? Just going through the motions for almost fifty years.

Jack had been angry for a long time, but he was not really angry with me. I had tried countless times to get him into counseling, or at least to talk to someone he trusted. Even my parents had gotten into the act before they moved to Arizona. My father urged him to talk to a priest. My mother suggested a rabbi. But all of this only brought on more arguments.

All of his life, Jack had had a master plan. He had graduated from law school at the top of his class, passed the bar with flying colors on his first try, and gotten a job with Baron, Sayers, one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. So far, so good. But that was as far as it went. The master plan had called for the name Jack Ramsey to be on door the by the time he was thirty-eight, but that time had come and gone four years ago, and he was still a junior partner working out of a little cubicle with a desk and no window. Never mind that he had made a name for himself in town. Never mind that he was called on three or four times a year to speak at various seminars on corporate law. Never mind that most lawyers would kill for the opportunity to be even a junior partner at Baron, Sayers.

While I was advancing in my career, Jack's, at least in his eyes, was at a stand still. He was jealous, and I could understand that. Still, I was tired of making excuses for him.

I dried my hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and put on the minimum amount of make-up I could wear and still feel like a human being. Crown Jewels wouldn't be open today, so there was no point is dressing up for work. I put on an emerald green silk tunic over black leggings and went down to the for a cup of coffee. I had just sat down at the table when the doorbell rang.

It was Jonas. He was standing on the front porch with his hat in his hand, staring at the hydrangea bush on the corner of the house. When I opened the door, he walked in without a word and threw himself down on the couch.

"I wanted to talk to you before the police do,"' he said. "I need coffee."

I shrugged and went into the kitchen. I brought back my own cup and one for him.

It was clear that Jonas hadn't slept all night. There were dark circles under his blood-shot eyes and his white hair was uncombed. His gray suit was rumpled. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him without a tie.

He balanced his fedora on his knee and picked up the coffee cup. He took a sip and made a face. "You call this coffee," he asked. "This is flavored water. You maybe got something to make this a little more interesting?"

I got a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cart and gave it to him. He added a generous amount to the cup and sampled it. "Better," he said.

I settled into a chair. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Shapiro thinks you robbed the store and did the guard. Tell me you didn't."

"My God, Jonas," I gasped. "How could you even think that?"

"Good enough for me," he said. "The guy's a sonofabitch goyim anyway. Your daddy, he's a gentile. Van Dorn, too. Jack, now, he's a goyim. Get my meaning?"

"Loud and clear," I said.

"Problem is, he thinks he's got evidence. Its nothing, of course, but you know how a guy like that gets." He drank some more of the coffee and added another dash of whiskey. "The thing is, the cops found your ring. It was in the vault with Harvey's body. In his hand, actually."

I could feel the blood draining from my face and I felt as though the room was spinning. "What?"

"You gotta think, Kid," he said. He leaned forward and set his cup on the table, so that his hands were free to make his usual wild gestures. "When did you last see it?"

"It was a week ago last Friday. I know I had it when I went to work, because I took it to Donald in the shop. I thought one of the sets was coming loose. He looked at it, worked on it for a few minutes and gave it back to me. Then Saturday morning, I didn't have it."

"Think about it. You gotta remember. Did you have it when you left the store?"

I did think about it. And I didn't remember. "I don't know," I said. "I don't think so, but I can't say for sure."

Jonas toyed with the brim of his hat. "Okay, so you lost it at work, it got mixed up with the merchandise, and they dropped it in the vault when they dumped the body. Harvey wasn't quite dead and he grabbed at anything he could get. It wound up in his hand. Hell of a coincidence, but it could happen. You seen the tape?"

"Of course."

"Shapiro thinks that's you. Yeah, I know. I must have looked at it probably a couple dozen times. It coulda been my own mother, I couldn't tell. To me, the person looked blonde and a lot shorter. I don't know." Jonas finished the coffee in two gulps and put the cup down. "Look, Kid, the company's behind you on this. Hell, I'm behind you all the way. I just don't know how much I can protect you. If it was just the robbery, you know, I refuse to press charges, its over. They have to look elsewhere. But this."

He stood and put his hat on. "Don't worry about this, Kid. They got nothing." He walked toward the door, then stopped and turned. "You alone the other night," he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Too bad."

"Yeah."

Chapter Six

The police arrived about twenty minutes after Jonas left. Four officers, led by Lt. Shapiro, search warrant in hand. They had what they called a blanket warrant. They were looking for anything that might connect me to the crime.

While they conducted the search, I sat on the love seat in the living room, alternately crouched in a ball with my forehead resting on my knees or staring out the big picture window, watching the world go by. This was a quiet, suburban neighborhood where, if anything scandalous ever did happen, it happened discreetly and was kept out of the public eye. Before today, the most interesting thing that had occurred here in years was the time twelve year old Andy Carlson from down the block was dragged home by the police. He had been joy riding in his father's Austin Healy. Apparently, he had been doing fine until he saw a police car, then he'd panicked and run into a converter box, blacking out the entire area for six hours.

I could find no solace in the fact that the story of the police searching my home would soon take over as the favorite subject of neighborhood gossip.

A robin landed in the bird bath just outside the window and began joyously splashing in the shallow water, without a care in the world. Across the street, two young squirrels played around the trunk of a giant old oak tree in the commons area. Further down, there was a woman sitting on one of the park benches, watching the squirrels and occasionally glancing up at the three police cars in my driveway. Finally, she got up and left. No doubt hurrying home to begin spreading the news.

At about the same time, the Levin twins, Julie and Jenny, rode by on their bikes. They stopped for a minutes at the end of the driveway. One of them whispered something to the other and they sped off toward home. I shifted my position, and could see them drop their bikes on the lawn and run into their house. When they told their mother, Ondrea, what was going on, she would be on the phone for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get the details.

All the time, I was listening to the sound of footsteps upstairs, following their progress. This was not the kind of quick, haphazard search you see on television and in the movies. It was excruciatingly slow and methodical.

There were two distinct sets of footfalls in the master bedroom, directly above me. Two others were in Jack's study across the hall. The fifth member of the group had been assigned to watch me, apparently to make certain that I didn't try to make a run for it. He sat on the marble bench in the foyer, looking very uncomfortable and trying to be inconspicuous, looking in my direction only when he heard me moving. I appreciated the privacy.

The two in the master bedroom moved on to the guest room down the hall. About ten minutes later, the others left Jack's study for my office. I kept all of my jewelry in a locked cabinet in the office, and no doubt, they would have a lot of questions about it. Fortunately, I kept all of the receipts and appraisals in the cabinet, too. Still I figured that they would be in there for a while.

I stood up. The officer in the foyer stood, too.

"I'm going to get a seltzer," I said. "Would you care for one?"

He settled back onto the bench. "Yes, thank you," he said.

I returned in a minute with two glasses of ice and two bottles of New York Seltzer. "Strawberry or Lemon-Lime," I asked.

He chose the Lemon-Lime and introduced himself as Chad Washington.

"Pagan Brock," I said, "but you already know that." I sat down on the floor in the archway that led to the living room and opened my seltzer.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Brock."

"Thank you," I said, "and its Ms. Brock, but what the hell, call me Pagan."

"Don't see places like this too often in my line of work."

Chad Washington was young, maybe twenty-one or two. His skin was very dark, the color of rich, polished mahogany. His kinky hair was cut in a modified crew cut with the sides and back shaved, and he had a thin mustache that he probably thought made him look older. He had a nervous habit of tapping the edge of the class ring he wore on his right hand on whatever happened to be nearby. When I handed him the glass, he moved the tapping from the marble seat to the edge of the glass.

"Would you mind not doing that," I asked.

"What?"

"The tapping." I fished for a reason for this request that would not betray my own nervousness. "Its bad for the gold."

"Really?"

"Yes. After a while, the stress will weaken it." That's what Shapiro's trying to do to me, I thought.

Washington turned his hand and studied the underside of the ring shank. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah," I said. I noticed the search warrant unfolded on the bench beside him. "Catching up on your reading?" Washington looked puzzled. I nodded at the paper.

"Oh, yeah. I guess I like to know something about the cases I get involved with."

"In other words, you were curious."

He blushed. It made him look even younger.

"Nothing wrong with curiosity," I said. "Do you mind?" I held my hand out for the paper.

He shrugged. "You have every right to read it." He handed me the warrant.

It looked like every other legal document I had ever seen, filled with the Latin mumbo jumbo that lawyers, judges, and cops who had been on the job too long use to make themselves feel more important. Most of it, I couldn't even begin to understand, probably because I didn't particularly want to. The section that outlined the evidence against me I understood, and it would have been laughable had there not been four police officers upstairs searching through my private things.

They were searching everywhere. My closet, dresser drawers. My desk drawers where I kept all of my private letters. Letters from my mother, detailing the slow and painful progress of my father's illness. Letters from old high school chums full of reminiscences of the silly things we had done. Letters from my dearest friend, Allison, who was more like a sister. We told each other things that we wouldn't want anyone else in the world to know. Were they up there now, reading those letters and making crude comments about the negligees they had found in the closet?

The diary I had kept when I was sixteen was hidden in a box in the closet in my office. Had they found that? Many of the things I had written in it I hadn't even told Allison. Were they reading it? Were my secret insecurities and passions now public domain? Would the story of my first lover be told over a couple of beers in what ever bar off duty cops hang out in?

"This is bullshit," I mumbled. I handed the warrant back to Washington.

He smiled sympathetically. "You do something to piss off Shapiro?"

At that moment, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Shapiro and another cop came down the stairs into the foyer. Shapiro walked straight toward me, as though he didn't see me.

"Out of the way," he growled.

I slid out of the archway to avoid being stepped on. I leaned my back against the marble bench as the two cops went into the living room.

"Is it my imagination, or is he a little unbalanced," I asked Washington.

"You didn't hear it from me." Washington had relaxed. He had determined that I posed no threat, and was perhaps beginning to think of me as a person rather than as a suspect.

And, in turn, I had begun to relax. Until I saw them pulling the cushions off the furniture and casually tossing the contents of drawers onto the floor.

"I can't watch this," I said and stood up.

I stayed in the atrium until they were ready to search that room, then returned to my spot on the love seat in the living room. It was perhaps another hour before I saw the officers gather in the foyer.

"Find anything," I asked.

Shapiro glared at me. "Don't leave town," he said, and walked out the front door, disappointed.

Three other officers followed him out. Washington came down the step into the living room. He held out his hand and I took it.

"It was nice to meet you, Pagan," he said.

"Thank you."

Washington left and closed the door.

I took the phone off the hook. I didn't want to deal with nosy neighbors yet.

I went upstairs to look around. They had been thorough if not tidy about the job. Most of the drawers were ajar and the contents had been stuffed back in thoughtlessly. I didn't care about my own things. Frankly, it was hard to tell the difference between before and after. But if Jack's black socks aren't to the left of his gray ones and to the right of his brown ones, he had a fit. I checked his study and found it barely touched.

I spent about an hour straightening cushions and arranging anything that Jack might notice was out of place. I couldn't prevent him from finding out about this, but I could soften the blow.

By the time I finished, the silence of the house had become oppressive. Jonas had given me the day off, but I couldn't think of anyplace to go other than work.

When I put the phone back on the hook, it began to ring almost instantly. I thought about turning on the answering machine, then decided against it.

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