Tess positioned her boat and slid forward in her seat. She never raced anymore, except against herself, but the routines were second nature.

"Start rowing," Rock called. "Build up to a full stroke in ten."

The water had smoothed out, allowing Tess to find her groove quickly. She rowed as she would have in her old women's eight, following the calls of an imaginary coxswain. Full power for ten, using everything she had, then ten strokes with legs only. She passed under the shadow of the Hanover Street Bridge and into the light again, feeling confident and loose.

Then she saw Rock coming toward her. She had thought he might lie back a bit, give her a slight edge, but Rock was incapable of giving anything but his best. A peculiar liability, one from which she had never suffered. He crossed the water with amazing speed, his technique so perfect Tess was tempted to stop and watch. But she had to try. She wanted breakfast. Blueberry pancakes, perhaps even a western omelet, were at stake.

They were even with the boat house when Rock shot past her. In head races, one boat passes another boat a seat at a time, the coxswain hurling insults at the rowers left behind. But Rock seemed to flash past Tess in a single stroke. She caught a glimpse of his face, grim and almost cruel looking, sweat pouring from his forehead.

Doggedly she kept going. Behind her she could hear the roar of the glass factory, a malevolent-looking place that blew gusts of hot air across the river. There always seemed to be a dozen fires going, no matter what time of day one rowed, yet no human forms were ever seen. Tess rowed toward this wall of heat, full power for the last thirty strokes. Her arms stung from the lactic acid built up in the muscles, and she felt as if each stroke might be her last. Rock had won, of course, but she had to finish. She surged past his waiting boat just as she began to think she could not force another stroke.

When she looked up, Rock was bent forward, his shoulders heaving. He often pushed himself to the point where he vomited, and Tess was used to seeing her friend with a bit of saliva trailing from his mouth. She felt a little nauseated herself. When she could move again she paddled forward, pleased with herself for pushing him so hard.

But Rock wasn't throwing up; he was crying. Hunched forward, his face resting on his huge thighs, his whole body shook from the force of silent sobs. From behind he had looked to Tess like any rower after a tough workout. For some odd reason, it made her think of Moses and the burning bush. It was fascinating and bizarre. She reached across the water and tried to give him a there-there pat. Her hand glanced off his tricep as if she were trying to stroke a tree or, well, a rock.

"Sorry," he said.

Tess checked he oarlocks, feeling embarrassed and inept.

"Ava," he said succinctly.

Ava. His fiancée. Tess had met her at last spring's races. Rock never seemed to do as well when she was there. Perhaps it wasn't Ava's fault, but she still was not the woman Tess would have chosen for him. Not the woman his mother would have chosen either, or his coworkers, or anyone with a remote interest in his happiness, Tess was sure. Ava was a lawyer, beautiful, accomplished-and an absolute bitch in a way only other women could fathom. Despite three meetings she never remembered Tess's name.

But all Tess said was: "Ava?"

"I think she's-" He groped for a word. "In trouble."

"What kind?"

"Some kind she can't talk about. She's not at home when I call her late at night, but she's not at the office, either. She was supposed to come up to the Adirondacks for the second week, but she called at the last minute, said some emergency had come up at work. That boss of hers, Abramowitz, works her to death on these asbestos cases."

Tess remembered how proud he had been when Ava had gotten the job at O'Neal, O'Connor and O'Neill, how proud he was that the flamboyant new partner Michael Abramowitz wanted her for his assistant.

"That's plausible, isn't it? The Triple O is a pretty high-powered law firm, and those asbestos cases just keep coming."

"Yeah, especially when one of your biggest clients is Sims-Kever, which would rather pay one hundred million dollars in fees than pay one dollar in damages to a single old guy who can't breathe." Rock picked at one of his calluses. "Except Ava wasn't at work last week. I called and the secretary told me she was on vacation. I'm sure there's a logical explanation, though."

"Then why don't you ask her?"

"Ava's funny that way. If I asked her she'd get so offended that-" He shook his head, as if Tess couldn't imagine what Ava was like when offended, how absolutely frightening and adorable. "She's very sensitive."

They drifted on the light current. Here, in a cove near the marina, the water was still and smooth. Tess tried to think of the right thing to say, the thing to end this conversation and bring her closer to some blueberry pancakes. Ava's behavior suggested all sorts of theories to her, all unsavory.

"I'm sure there's a good reason," she said finally.

"But there's only one way to know."

"Ask her? You said you couldn't talk to her about this."

"No, follow her."

"Wouldn't she notice if you followed her?"

"Of course," Rock said. "But I've been thinking she wouldn't notice if you did."

"How could I follow her? I mean, how could I afford the time to do it? I know I have flexible hours, but I don't just sit around my apartment all day, watching television." This was a sore point with Tess. A lot of people seemed to think being unemployed was a lark. She had to work two jobs just to stay afloat.

"Because I would pay you. Thirty dollars an hour, what private detectives get. You find someone to take your place at the bookstore for a few days."

"I'm not a private detective," she reminded him.

"No, but you used to be a reporter. Didn't you tell me something about following some city official? And you write reports for your uncle. This could be like a report." He pretended to dictate. "‘At seven-thirty P.M. I saw Ava going into the Hemispheris Clinic at Hopkins. Did not come out for three hours. Receptionist confirmed she is donating platelets for a young cancer victim.' See?"

Jesus, she thought, he really can't come up with a good story. It was more plausible that Ava was going to Hopkins 's sex change clinic and didn't want to see Rock until she had her new equipment.

Still, thirty dollars an hour, for even five or six hours, was a frighteningly attractive prospect. Easy money. If Ava was doing nothing, Tess would make a friend happy. If Ava was up to no good, Tess would be paid to save her friend from a disastrous mistake.

"A computer upgrade," Rock wheedled. "Car repairs. A nest egg for your own racing shell, so you don't have to use the shit ones here."

Tess was compiling another list: A pair of earrings that didn't come from a Third World country. Leather boots, including the soles. Student loans. But she turned her mind away from those things, determined to find the flaw in the plan.

"Why not a real private eye, if you're willing to pay private eye prices?"

Rock looked across the river, suddenly fascinated by three young children wading on the northern bank.

"A real private eye would be sleazy," he said slowly, as if he was working the answer out for himself. "This is just a favor between friends. I'm offering to pay you because I know your time is valuable. And because I know you're always strapped for money."

As a freelancer Tess billed her time at twenty dollars an hour and often settled for less. As a contractual state employee she made ten dollars an hour. Her aunt gave her kitchen privileges, health insurance, and six dollars an hour for working in the bookstore. Her time had never been considered worth thirty dollars an hour.