"Got something," she said to Crow. "What kind of computer does he have here?"

"Macintosh, a really powerful one."

"Good, it's compatible with mine, as long as he uses the same word processing software." She pocketed it. "I guess this is it."

"The files?" Crow asked.

"Locked. I was trying to get into them when you and Mr. Miles showed up. I don't have much experience at breaking locks."

Crow looked at the filing cabinet with great concentration. Then he kicked it as hard as he could. Nothing happened, except that he fell over backward in pain, holding his foot.

"Did you check his desk drawer for a key?" he asked after several seconds, when he started breathing normally again.

Tess slid out the center drawer and immediately saw a key glinting among the pens. They unlocked the first bank of files. This was tricky territory. Lawyers' files are private, and random pawing could affect cases. But Abramowitz's files were as empty as his calendar. Legal-size folders sat, waiting for labels and files. Nothing more. The other drawers didn't even have folders in them. Finally, in the bottom drawer, they found a few mouse droppings.

"I guess the floppy is going to be our only souvenir from this trip," Tess said, patting her pocket.

"What about the gun?" Crow asked.

"If it's here, it's too well hidden. Or maybe it's in his house. Still, we'll always have Macauley's deposition about what happened. That might help."

"Won't he testify when the time comes?"

"When the time comes Macauley may not be alive."

Mr. Miles watched them leave. "Did you get what you came for, Miss Monaghan?"

"Not exactly," she said. "We found something, but it wasn't what we were looking for. I'm not sure what we found."

In the car, as Crow's voice assaulted her in stereo, she expected to feel depressed. They had failed. They had not found the gun. The legal status of the diskette in her pocket was dubious at best, its utility unknown.

But they had gotten in. She felt a buzz of pleasure from that fact alone.

"C'mon," Tess said. "I'll buy you a drink, as long as you order something that doesn't embarrass me. No girlie drinks."

"Sexist. What's a girlie drink?"

"Anything made in a blender, except a frozen margarita."

She directed him to one of her favorite bars, Frigo's, a neighborhood place that could not, despite the best efforts of five subsequent owners, be stripped of everything that made it pleasant and interesting. After five renovations, which included the addition of a Formstone exterior and a rickety deck, Frigo's, on the boundary between Fells Point and Little Italy, still had a tin-pressed ceiling, gleaming wood floors, and a mahogany bar.

More importantly it had one dollar drafts and a metal rack of Utz potato chips, which provided Crow and Tess with a three-course supper: barbecue, sour cream and onion, and, for dessert, crab flavored. The meal went surprisingly well with bourbon and water, Tess's drink of choice that night and, inevitably, Crow's. She suspected if she chose to dive into the harbor fully clothed, or announced a little bank job as their next assignment, Crow would have followed her without batting a thick black eyelash.

It was as if he had slipped his heart into her purse while she wasn't looking, so complete was the transference of his affection. Now Tess had the peripatetic, panicky feeling you have when guarding something special to someone else but of no particular value to you. She assumed she was safeguarding it only temporarily. Any day, any moment, he would want it back, undamaged, to hand to someone else.

"Do you think you'll find anything on the diskette?" Crow asked. "Should we go back to your place and read it now?"

"I don't expect to find anything. And, no, I don't need you to implicate yourself in this crime as well. There's a chance some privileged stuff might be on there. I did appreciate your help tonight, though."

Crow gave her a lovesick smile. His silly all-black garb was oddly flattering. In the dim light of the bar, his green highlights temporarily hidden, he looked halfway normal and almost attractive. He also looked very young.

Flustered, she took on the pedantic, lecturing tone of teacher to pupil, feeling a need to create some distance between them. She was, after all, at least six years older. Maybe seven.

"Tell me how you started to read James M. Cain."

"I saw Postman-the original one, with Lana Turner and John Garfield. I loved it, but I knew something was missing. It was like watching a movie on TV, knowing they've cut out the dirty parts. But, in this case, I figured the dirty parts were in the book. I was right."

"Yes. Cain once lamented he had a flaw that made it impossible for him to write something that wasn't censurable." She knew her voice sounded obnoxious and prim, but she couldn't stop herself. "I'm not sure how he would fare today, when anything goes. I think he'd be dismayed by a world in which nothing is censurable."

"I don't know; he lived until 1977," Crow said. "I bet he kept up. And there are plenty of things still censurable in this world. I don't care how cynical you are, the world will always find a way to shock and surprise you."

Miffed, Tess took a gulp of bourbon, washing the blend of chip flavors out of her mouth. When she was in the throes of a doomed crush, she had the good sense to be agreeable, to nod her head happily, surrendering to every silly thought voiced by the object of her affections. Crow managed to hold on to himself, even when he fell. He was younger than she: Didn't he understand he was supposed to be more stupid as well, less experienced in all things?

Tess asked Crow to drop her on Bond Street outside the darkened store. He would have preferred walking her to the private side entrance in the alley, but she wanted to avoid any datelike resonance. Fog had rolled in, and even though the air was warm and humid, the night was too romantic for her taste. She was worried Crow might try to kiss her. She was worried she might enjoy it.

Walking down the alley, she had an uneasy feeling. The fog obliterated the stars and the streetlights, so it seemed darker than usual. There was no moon. Maybe shooing Crow away hadn't been one of her best ideas. She stopped halfway down, thought about doubling back to the front doors, then thought better of it. The store had closed for the night, and she didn't want to cut through Kitty's private quarters, not when she was busy with Officer Friendly.

I'm being silly, she told herself. All this cloak-and-dagger nonsense at the law offices has gone to my head.

She started walking again, the soles of her loafers making a loud, flapping sound against the pavement. Her footsteps seemed to echo. Or was there another set of footsteps, shadowing hers?

Her keys were out, stuck between her fingers in the improvised brass knuckle technique her father had taught her before she went off to college. She had reached the heavy metal door that led to her staircase. But as she put the key in the lock, a man darted out of a recessed doorway on the other side of the alley and grabbed her right wrist.

Too startled to scream, she turned toward the street, ready to run, but her attacker held her firmly. She lashed out with her left arm and, although her aim was wild, it was a good, solid blow, striking hard against the man's cheekbone and nose.

"Goddammit, Tess." Jonathan Ross dropped her arm, putting his hands up to his face. "When did you get so skittish?"

"As a crime reporter you should know some of us city residents are a little nervous these days. A murder a day, almost."

"I think I'm bleeding."

"Don't be a baby." She unlocked the door. Her hands were shaking; in fact she was quivering all over as if she had been drinking cappuccino instead of bourbon. She pulled Jonathan inside and examined him under the light at the bottom of her stairs.