Christian nodded. 'But they go somewhere else. This was in my private box. The number is unlisted.'

Myron handled the envelope carefully, trying not to smudge any potential fingerprints. 'It could be trick photography,' Myron added. 'Someone might have superimposed her head on-'

Christian stopped him with a shake of his head. His eyes were back on the floor. 'It's not just her face, Mr Bolitar,' he said, embarrassed.

'Oh,' Myron said, ever swift on the uptake. 'I see.'

'Do you think we should give this to the police?' Christian asked.

'Perhaps.'

'I want to do the right thing,' Christian said, his hands balling into fists. 'But I won't let them drag Kathy through the mud again. You saw what they did when she was the victim. What will they do when they see this?'

'They'll go animal,' he agreed.

Christian nodded.

'But it's probably just a prank,' Myron continued. 'I'll check it out before we do anything else.'

'How?'

'Let me worry about that.'

'There's one other thing,' Christian said. 'The handwriting on the envelope.'

Myron glanced at it again. 'What about it?'

'I can't say for sure, but it looks a lot like Kathy's.'

Myron stopped short when he saw her.

He had just stumbled into the bar in something of a daydream, his mind like a movie camera that couldn't stay in focus. He tried to sift through what he had just seen and learned from Christian, tried to compute the facts and form a solid, well-conceived conclusion.

He came up with nothing.

The magazine was jammed into the right pocket of his trench coat. Porn mag and trench coat, Myron thought. Jesus. The same questions echoed ad nauseam in his head: Could Kathy Culver still be alive? And if she was, what had happened to her? What could have led Kathy from the innocence of her dorm room to the back pages of Nips magazine?

That was when he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was sitting on a stool, her long legs crossed, sipping gently at her drink. She wore a white blouse opened at the throat, a short gray skirt, and black stockings. Everything clung just right. For a fleeting moment Myron thought she was just a by-product of his daydream, a dazzling vision to tantalize the senses. But the knot in his stomach made him quickly dismiss that notion. His throat went dry. Deep, dormant emotions crashed down upon him like a surprise wave at the beach.

He managed to swallow and commanded his legs to move forward. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. Everything else in the bar faded into the background, as though they were only stage props set for her.

Myron approached. 'Come here often?' he asked.

She looked at him like he was an old man jogging in a Speedo. 'Original line,' she said. 'Very creative.'

'Maybe not,' he said. 'But what a delivery.' He smiled. Winningly, he thought.

'Glad you think so.' She turned back to her drink. 'Please leave.'

'Playing hard to get?'

'Get lost.'

Myron grinned. 'Stop it already. You're embarrassing yourself.'

'Pardon me.'

'It's obvious to everyone in this bar.'

'Oh?' she remarked. 'Do enlighten.'

'You want me. Bad.'

She almost smiled. 'That obvious, huh?'

'Don't blame yourself. I'm irresistible.'

'Uh-huh. Catch me if I swoon.'

'I'm right here, sweetcakes.'

She sighed deeply. She was as beautiful as ever, as beautiful as the day she had walked out on him. He hadn't seen her in four years, but it still hurt to think about her. It hurt even more to look at her. Their weekend at Win's house on Martha's Vineyard came to him. He could still remember the way the ocean breeze blew her hair, the way she tilted her head when he spoke, the way she looked and felt in his old sweat shirt. Simple fragile bliss. The knot in his stomach tightened.

'Hello, Myron,' she said.

'Hello, Jessica. You're looking well.'

'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'My office is upstairs. I practically live here.'

She smiled. 'Oh, that's right. You represent athletes now, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'Better than working all that undercover stuff?'

Myron did not bother answering. She glanced at him but did not hold the gaze.

'I'm waiting for someone,' Jessica said suddenly.

'A male someone?'

'Myron…'

'Sorry. Old reflex.' He looked at her left hand. His heart back-flipped when he saw no rings. 'You never married what's-his-name?' he asked.

'Doug.'

'That's right. Doug. Or was it Dougie?'

'You're making fun of someone's name?'

Myron shrugged. She had a point. 'So what happened to him?'

Her eyes studied a beer ring on the bar. 'It wasn't about him,' she said.

'You know that.'

He opened his mouth and then closed it. Rehashing the bitter past was not going to do any good. 'So what brings you back to the city?'

'I'm going to be teaching a semester at NYU.'

His heart sped up again. 'You moved back to Manhattan?'

'Last month.'

'I'm really sorry about your father's-'

'We got your flowers,' she interrupted.

'I wanted to do more.'

Better you didn't.' She finished her drink. I have to go. It was nice seeing you.'

I thought you were meeting someone.'

My mistake, then.'

'I still love you, you know.'

She stood, nodded.

'Let's try again,' he said.

'No.'

She walked away.

'Jess?'

'What?'

He considered telling her about her sister's picture in the magazine. 'Can we have lunch sometime?' he asked. 'Just talk, okay?'

'No.'

Jessica turned and left him. Again.

Windsor Home Lockwood III listened to Myron's story with his fingers steepled. Steepling looked good on Win, a lot better than on Myron. When Myron finished, Win said nothing for a few moments, doing more of that steepled-hands-concentration thing. Finally he rested his hands on the desk.

'My, my, haven't we had a special day?'

Myron rented his space from his old college roommate, Windsor Home; Lockwood III. People often said that Myron looked nothing like his name - an observation Myron took as high praise; Windsor Home Lockwood however, looked exactly like his name. Blond hair, perfect length, parted at the left side. His features were classical patrician, almost too handsome, like something crafted in porcelain.

His attire was always thoroughbred prep - pink shirts, polo monogrammed shirts, khaki pants, golf (read, ugly) pants, white buc (Memorial Day to Labor Day) or wing tips (Labor Day to Memorial Daf| on his feet. Win even had that creepy accent, the one that did not originate from any particular geographical location as much as from certain prep schools like Andover and Exeter. (Win had gone to Exeter.) He played a mean game of golf. He had a three handicap and was the fifth-generation member of stuffy Merion Golf Club in Philadelphia and third-generation equally stuffy Pine Valley in southern New Jersey. He had a perennial tan, one of those where the color could be found only on the arms (s sleeve shirts) and a V-shape in the neck (open alligator shirt), though Win's lily-white skin never tanned. It burned.

Win was full-fledged whitebread. He made star quarterback Ch Steele look like a Mediterranean houseboy.

Myron had hated Windsor on sight. Most people did. Win was used to that.