Rachel was incredulous. "You sound like a bad imitation of a gangster."

"But he will. He's not going to let you get away with anything."

"God, you are so infantile. Now you're going to set your big brother on me?"

"I'm just trying to warn you."

"No. You're trying to frighten me. And it's not going to work."

He looked away for a moment, to see that nobody was close enough to hear him. "Who do you think's going to be there to help you if you get into trouble?" he said. "We're the only real family you've got, baby. The only people you could turn to if things got nasty."

Rachel was beginning to feel faintly sick. There was no mistaking what Mitch was saying.

"I think I need to go home," she told him.

"You know, you do look a little flushed," he said, his hand going up to her cheek. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just tired," she said.

"I'll take you down to the street."

"I'll be all right."

"No," he said, linking his arm through hers, and drawing her close to him. "I'll go with you."

Together they made their way through the crowd, pausing a couple of times so that Mitchell could exchange a few words with someone he knew. Rachel made little attempt to play the attentive wife; she slipped his hold and moved on toward the door after a few seconds, leaving him to follow her.

"We should talk some more," he said once they reached the street.

"About what? I have nothing to say to you."

"Just because we'd had some hard times-hear me out, Rachel please-that doesn't mean we have to throw up our hands and let everything we ever had, everything we ever felt for one another, go to hell. We should talk. We really should." He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I want the best for you."

"Is that why you threatened me in there?" Rachel said.

"If it came out that way then I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, it's not what I meant at all. I just want you to see things the way I see them." She stared at him, hoping he felt her contempt. "I've got a much better picture of the situation right now," he said. "I have more… information about the way things are. And I know-trust me, Rachel, I know-that you're not in a safe place."

"I'll take the risk."

"Rachel-"

"Go to hell," she told him very calmly.

The chauffeur was out of the car, opening the door for her.

"Call me tomorrow," Mitchell said. She ignored him. "We're not done yet, Rachel."

"You can dose the door," she told the driver, who obliged her, leaving a muted Mitchell standing on the sidewalk, looking both irritated and faintly forlorn.

As she stepped out of the car at the other end of her journey, a young bespectacled man-who'd been out of sight behind the potted cypress at the door-stepped into view.

"Mrs. Geary?" he said. "I have to talk to you." He was dressed in what her mother would have called his Sunday best: a powder-blue suit; a thin black tie; polished shoes. His blond hair was trimmed close to his scalp, but the severity of the cut didn't spoil the amiability of his features. His face was round, his nose and mouth small; his eyes soft and anxious.

"Please hear me out," he begged, though Rachel had done nothing to indicate that she would ignore him. "It's very important." He glanced nervously toward the security guard who kept twenty-four-hour vigilance at the door of her building. "I'm not crazy. And I'm not begging. It's-"

"Is he causing a problem here, Mrs. Geary?" the guard wanted to know.

"-it's about Margie," the young man said hurriedly. His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"What about her?"

"We knew one another," the young man said. "My name's Danny."

"The barman?"

"Yeah. The barman."

"Do you want to just go inside, Mrs. Geary?" the guard went on. "I can deal with this guy for you."

"No, he's okay," Rachel said. Then, to Danny: "You'd better come on in."

"No, I think I'd feel safer if we just walked."

"All right, we'll walk."

At Danny's request they crossed to the other side of the street, and walked under the trees around the park.

"Why all the secrecy?" she asked him. "You're not in any danger."

"I don't trust the family. Margie said they were like the Mafia."

"Margie exaggerated."

"She also said you were the only one worth a damn."

"That's nice to hear."

"She loved you so much, you know?"

"I loved her," Rachel said. "She was a wonderful lady."

"So she told you about me?"

"A little. She said she had a younger man in her life. Boasted, really."

"We got on great. She liked my martinis and I… I

thought she was like somebody you'd see in a movie, you know?"

"Larger than life."

"Right. Larger than life."

"She never did anything by halves, that's for sure."

"I know that," he said, with a little smile. "She was, you know, really… passionate. I never met any woman like her. Not that I've been around that many older women-I mean, I wouldn't want you to think I was some kind of gigolo or something."

"What a nice, old-fashioned word."

"Well, that's not me."

"I understand, Danny," Rachel said gently. "You genuinely felt something for Margie."

"And she felt something for me," Danny replied. "I know she did. But she didn't want everybody gossiping. She knew people would think she was being sleazy. You know, with me being younger; and a barman, for Chrissakes."

"So is all this about making sure I don't say anything? Because you needn't worry. I'm not going to blab about it."

"Oh, I know that," he said. "Really. She trusted you and so do I."

"So, what do you want?"

He studied the sidewalk for a few yards. Then he said: "I wrote her some letters, talking about things we'd done together. Physical things." He put his hand to his face and plucked at his moustache. "It was a stupid thing to do; but there were days when I was so full of feelings I had to write it down."

"And where are these letters?"

"Somewhere in her apartment, I guess."

"And you want me to get them back?"

"Yes. If possible. And… there's some photographs too."

"How much stuff are we talking about?"

"Only five or six photographs. There's more letters.

Maybe ten or twelve. I wasn't keeping track. I mean, I never expected…" For the first time in the conversation she thought he was going to start crying. His voice cracked; he reached into his pocket and dug out a handkerchief. "God," he said. "I'm a wreck."

"You're doing really well," Rachel said.

"I know you probably think I was in it for what she could give me, and right at the beginning that's what it was about. I'm not going to lie about that. I liked that she had plenty of money, and I liked that she gave me things. But in the end, I didn't care any more. I just wanted her." Without warning, the tears became a rant. "And that bastard sonofabitch husband of hers! Jesus! Jesus! How could anybody believe a word he says? He should be fried! Fucking fried!"

"He's going to get off," Rachel said quietly.

"Then there's no justice. Because he killed her in cold blood."

"You seem very sure about that," Rachel said. Danny didn't reply. "Is that because you were with her that night?"

"I don't know that we should get into this," Danny said.

"It seems to me we're already there."

"Suppose you have to testify under oath."

"Then I'll lie," Rachel said flatly.

Danny cast her a sideways glance. "How come you're like this?"

"Like what?"

"Just… not all pissy with me, you know? I'm just a barman."

"And I'm a girl who sold jewelry."

"But you're a Geary now."

"That's a mistake I'm going to fix."

"So you're not afraid of them?"

"I don't want Margie's name dragged in the dirt any more than you do. I'm not guaranteeing I'll find this stuff, but I'll do what I can."