"So he just made up everything else-the Louisville Slugger, you running around the desk?"

"And he kept my gun. He said it was for my own good, it being illegal to carry a revolver, even if it was registered. Which was true-I'd have been in a lot more trouble if they'd known about that. Him dropping the charges wouldn't have made any differences."

"I didn't have the impression Michael Abramowitz was someone who did things to be nice."

"Maybe he wanted my gun for a reason. Maybe he knew that young fella was coming for him."

Tess didn't bother to defend Rock to Mr. Macauley. He thought she worked for the Triple O. It might have been unseemly if she made excuses for the man accused of killing her putative boss.

But she was tantalized by the thought of that gun. Did Abramowitz fear someone else? Did he suspect it was only a matter of time before that person came for him? If he had hidden it well, the gun might still be there, and its existence could be used to prove Abramowitz had felt threatened long before Rock could be considered a suspect.

"So when do you think I'll get my check, young lady?" Mr. Macauley asked. His wife looked up hopefully.

Tess weighed her options. She could lie, tell them what they wanted to hear, only to have them weather another disappointment eventually. She could come clean and admit she had nothing to do with the check. Or she could choose a middle path-telling them it was unlikely while not confessing her own masquerade.

"Soon," she said emphatically. "I have a good feeling about it." And she got up to leave, hoping she had given them just one afternoon in which they didn't need to think about $850,000 and the days clicking by faster than the tenth-of-a-mile marks on a taxi meter. If Mr. Macauley had a year to live, each day was worth at least $1,700, she calculated, even after attorney's fees. It was the most expensive gift she had ever given someone.

Mrs. Macauley walked her to the door.

"Miss?"

"Monaghan. Tess Monaghan."

"If they find Abner's gun, will they send it back to us?"

"They might." After the trial.

"Maybe that's not such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because, hon, if we still had that gun, I'd probably use it on Abner one night, then do myself and the dogs. Abner wants the money because he needs proof he won. It's a trophy to him. But they can't pay me enough to sit here and watch my husband die."

By the time Tess returned to Women and Children First, she knew she had to find out if Abner Macauley's gun was still in Abramowitz's office. It wasn't much, but it could give Tyner something else to play with. They needed every toy they could find at this point.

She waited until 4:55 to call the Triple O. Seamon P. O'Neal was true to his word: The request to visit Abramowitz's office was rejected-through an intermediary, of course. Fine. Tess considered the refusal an invitation to get what she wanted by any means, fair or foul. Not that she had told them why she wanted to look around. It had been risky to call at all: O'Neal might order a sweep of the office and dispose of anything out of the ordinary. That's why she had called just before 5 P.M. on a Friday. It gave her the entire weekend. To do what, however?

Kitty refused to brainstorm with her. "It gets complicated," she said, "dating a cop." But Crow was all too willing a coconspirator.

"Disguise yourself as a janitor," he suggested. "No-a courier. Put on bike shorts, a helmet, the whole uniform. Maybe the guard will be confused enough to let you up."

"The guard knows me, unfortunately. Even if he didn't, a courier wouldn't necessarily get upstairs," she said, thinking about Joey Dumbarton, the earnest security guard who never let anyone by him unless the person signed the sheet or slipped him a twenty dollar bill. Then again Joey might regard her as a quasi-official, deserving of certain privileges. If she played it right he would wave her up. Then, the gun found, she would leave it in its hiding place and call Tyner, who could get a court order to search the office. Or something-she was a little fuzzy on the legal issues here. The hardest part would be explaining her scheme to Tyner after the fact.

"You need backup," Crow announced. "I should come with you."

"It's a borderline felony, and Tyner's not going to bail your ass out of jail if we get caught. I'll be lucky if he bails me out."

"You need a lookout, someone to keep watch while you're rifling through things," he said with the conviction of someone who had watched too many detective shows. "Be bold. It's the only way."

In some circumstances this might have seemed a straightforward if slightly stilted statement. But something in Crow's tone-an arch, self-mocking tone-caught Tess's ear.

"Say that again."

He grinned. This time his treatment was even campier. "Be bold. It's the only way."

"Double Indemnity. Insurance salesman Walter Neff says that to Phyllis Nirdlinger when they're planning to kill her husband-"

"She wants to do it in a bathtub, but he tells her it's a bum idea. He tells her everyone thinks the bathtub is the way to go-since some insurance adjuster put out a newsletter saying most accidents happen there. Which is funny because…"

"A bathtub accident was the plan Cora and Tom first hatched in The Postman Always Rings Twice."

"Exactly. I never thought anyone else noticed that."

She stared at Crow. A James M. Cain fan. And not just any Cain fan, one who could quote him.

"Have you read all his books? What's your favorite?"

"Double Indemnity."

"I have a soft spot for Mildred Pierce. The working girl trying to make something out of herself."

"‘In Glenwood, California, a man was trimming trees,'" Crow recited.

"What did you do, learn it all by heart?"

"I have a photographic memory of sorts. After I read something twenty or thirty times, I remember it. So can I go? No one in a Cain novel ever tried to pull something by themselves."

"No one in a Cain novel ever got away with anything, either," she reminded him sourly. "But I guess you know what you're getting into. Meet me back here about ten tomorrow night. We'll just have to hope even the most ambitious young lawyers take Saturday night off."

The truth was, if Crow hadn't been so impossibly gung ho, she would have been tempted to blow it off. Perhaps it was better to do what Tyner told her to do, and nothing more. Well, this would be her last burst of initiative.

On Saturday night Tess donned her version of work clothes: Blazer, jeans, plain white shirt, loafers. Crow, however, seemed to think he was in a spy film. He had on a black turtleneck, black jeans, a black cap pulled down over his black and green hair, even black gloves. Everything but coal smudged on his face. He carried a large flashlight and looked enormously pleased with himself.

"I've been thinking," he said. "This is kind of like our first date."

"Are you settling for me since Kitty is taken? I should mention I'm not partial to green highlights."

"It wouldn't be settling," Crow said. "And I can make my hair whatever color you like."

"Great, we'll get some Lady Clairol later. Let's get going and get this over with."

They took Crow's car, which Tess had assumed, with some dread, would be on a par with his art school hair and personality. Original. Dangerous. Slightly annoying.

Instead it was a Volvo station wagon, a late model with private school decals and a state-of-the-art stereo system that almost blasted her into the back seat when he turned the key in the ignition.

"Demo tape," Crow explained. "I have my own band. Po ' White Trash."