But Porfirio was still holding the gun. And after all, he was here to talk to someone about Melantha.

"You'll be free to leave at any time, of course," Stavros assured him. "But it would be in your best interests, and Melantha's, if you talk to Sylvia."

"What exactly is her relationship with Melantha?" Roger asked, feeling a trickle of hope.

Apparently, Stavros had misinterpreted his hesitation, seeing careful and judicious thought instead of weakness and indecision. Maybe he could get away with pretending to be the strong, reserved type.

"She's family," Stavros said. "It'll be all right. Really."

Roger pursed his lips, as if weighing the options, then nodded. "All right," he said, trying to pitch his voice like he was doing them a favor. "Where is she?"

"I'll take you in," Porfirio volunteered, tucking his gun out of sight in a side pocket.

"No, I'll do it," Stavros said. "This way, Roger."

There was a four-button intercom set in the wall beside the inner door. Stavros didn't bother pushing any of the buttons, but simply turned the knob and pushed the door open. The foyer had a feeling of age, the sense of a place that had somehow managed to avoid the advances of time. Stavros gestured to the polished wooden stairway and they started up.

"You said Sylvia was family," Roger said as they walked. "Melantha's family?"

"We're all Melantha's family," Stavros said over his shoulder.

"Really," Roger said, frowning. Stavros's eyes and skin tone were right, but aside from that there wasn't any particular resemblance. Part of Melantha's extended family? Or did he simply mean they were both members of the same ethnic group?

They got off at the third-floor landing. An odd mixture of aromas swirled through the air, and Roger felt his nose crinkling as he tried to sort out the various components. It was definitely cooking, but not of any ethnic category he could identify. "In here," Stavros said, stepping to the door and opening it.

A stronger wave of the exotic aromas rolled out into the hall. Bracing himself, Roger stepped inside.

He found himself in a room that seemed at first glance to be a copy of a nineteenth-century parlor, complete with flower-patterned wallpaper, a simple dark rug, and furniture of a style his grandmother would have felt right at home with. His second glance picked up the more modern touches: the abstract pictures on the wall, the desk phone, the late-model computer tucked into a rolltop desk in the back corner.

Standing in the center of the room was a thirtyish woman, dark-haired and with the same Mediterranean features he'd noted in both Melantha and the two men downstairs.

And pinned high up on her blouse was a brooch made of delicate silver fibers. A brooch that looked a lot like the one he had in his side pocket.

"Come in, Roger," the woman invited as Roger hesitated by the doorway. "My name's Cassia. I'm a colleague of Sylvia's."

"Thank you," Roger said. "Just a colleague? Not family?"

"We're all family," Cassia said. "In here, please."

She stepped back into an archway leading from the back of the parlor and gestured through it. Roger walked past her, taking the opportunity to look at her brooch more closely. It wasn't a duplicate of the one in his pocket, but it was definitely of the same style. Offhand, he couldn't decide whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

The dining room had been assembled from the same hodgepodge of modern and antique furnishings that he'd already noted in the parlor. Dominating the center was a long wooden table with enough straight-backed chairs to accommodate fifteen or sixteen adults. A half-dozen children were currently seated around it, ranging in age from preschool to perhaps eleven years old. At the near end of the table was a middle-aged woman who seemed to be the one in charge. At the far end, across from her, sat a much older woman with white hair and deep age lines in her face. The children were in high spirits, laughing and chattering away in an unfamiliar language as they dug eagerly into their dinner.

He frowned. Their dinner?

It was dinner, all right. The serving platters were heavy with slices of steaming meat—lamb, he tentatively identified it—plus rice, three different kinds of vegetables, dark bread that looked homemade, butter, and milk. Definitely dinner.

At eleven o'clock in the morning.

"You must be Roger."

Roger lifted his gaze from the table to the older woman's face. For all the erosion of the years, he could still see echoes of what must once have been a striking beauty. Her eyes were bright and aware, sparkling with intelligence. Like Melantha and Cassia, her skin had that olive Mediterranean look.

And like Cassia, she was wearing a delicately styled silver brooch, this one with a green stone in the center.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "You must be Sylvia."

"Indeed," she said. "I appreciate your willingness to see me."

"No problem," Roger said. "But I don't want to interrupt your party."

"Six children hardly constitutes a party," Sylvia said with a smile.

"They must be voracious eaters," Roger said, nodding toward the table. "That, or you're expecting more company."

The children and the middle-aged woman had stopped their conversation and were looking curiously at their visitor. "Perhaps we should step out to the front room," Sylvia said, pushing her chair back and standing up. A few words in that same strange language, and the children returned to their meal.

"They're all home-schooled," she explained as she circled the table toward Roger.

"And the meal?" he asked. "Dinner, at eleven in the morning?"

"Their fathers work the night shifts," she said. "They're running late today, so we let the children start without them."

"I see," Roger said through suddenly stiff lips. So a whole crowd of these people was about to descend on him? Terrific.

Cassia was standing beside a high-backed sofa when he and Sylvia returned to the parlor. "Sit down," Sylvia invited, gesturing Roger toward a wing-back chair as she lowered herself onto the sofa beside the younger woman. "I understand you've brought word of Melantha. You have her?"

Roger eyed the old woman. She was leaning slightly forward, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I know where she is," he said cautiously. "May I ask your relationship to her?"

"We're family," Sylvia said briefly. "What exactly has she told you?"

Roger felt his throat tighten. What has she told you? No questions about Melantha's health; no inquiry about her safety or well-being. Sylvia's first question had been about Melantha's location; her second had been whether the girl had talked.

Someone had tried to strangle Melantha. Someone, perhaps, who was worried about what she might say to strangers?

"I know someone tried to kill her," he said evenly, watching the lined face carefully. But there was no surprise there he could detect. "I know she's terrified for her life."

"Anything else?"

Roger hesitated. This could be risky, but it might be interesting to see her reaction. "I know there are others interested in her," he said.

Again, Sylvia's face didn't even twitch. But Cassia wasn't in such good command of her face. The sudden compression of lips and throat were all he needed to know he'd hit a nerve.

So they knew about the mugger in the alley. Did they know about the nighttime human fly, too?

"Really," Sylvia said. Her voice, like her face, was perfectly calm. "And who might they be?"

"I thought you might like to tell me," Roger invited.

"I'd prefer to talk about Melantha," Sylvia said.

"That's fine with me," Roger said. "You could start by telling me why you don't seem to care about her well-being."

"That's not true," Cassia protested. "We're more interested—"