"So she comes to AA, meets this guy, and slowly trails off."

"Yes." Mr. Zane shrugged. He said, "It's often like that in the beginning. Admitting you're an alcoholic is tough. Staying sober is even tougher. Most of our members end up starting and stopping a few times before it sticks."

"Was there anyone else at this meeting who seemed to know Mandy? Say, someone six feet tall, well dressed, trim build, late forties, early fifties?" Rainie was working off Bethie's neighbor's statement to the police that she'd seen someone resembling Quincy enter the town house. But Mr. Zane shook his head.

"Are you sure?" she persisted.

"You haven't been to an AA meeting lately, have you, Ms. Conner? You spend half your life overindulging in alcohol and drugs and you're rarely the well-dressed, trim-build type. Maybe a Hollywood star can pull it off, but the rest of us, we've abused ourselves and we look it. Even Amanda Quincy was becoming harsh around the edges."

Rainie scowled again. One name and description later, she was more confused than when she'd started. She studied good old William Zane. His gaze was clear. He met her eye. Dammit, just when you were hoping someone was feeding you a lie, he went and told the truth.

She glanced at her watch. T-minus ten and still two stops to go. She rose, shook Zane's hand, and tried not to take his obvious relief at her departure too personally.

At the door, however, she was struck by one last question. "At your meetings," she said, "you talk about some very personal things, right?"

"Yes."

"What did Mandy talk about?"

He hesitated.

"Crime-scene photos, Mr. Zane. Crime. Scene. Photos."

"Mandy had self-esteem issues. Mandy… had a lot of self-esteem issues. She talked about how famous her father was. She talked about how beautiful her mother was. She talked about how smart her sister was. And she talked about – Let's put it this way, she often categorized herself as a disposable blonde."

"A 'disposable blonde'?"

"Mandy had this obsession with violence, Ms. Conner. She liked to see slasher movies, to read true-crime novels. She told the group that when she was younger, she used to sneak into her fathers office and look through his homicide textbooks, even read his case files. They terrified her, but she still came back for more. It wasn't a healthy thing. It wasn't a face-your-fear kind of thing. She did it to punish herself. You see, most of us identify with the crime solver when we watch slasher movies or read mystery novels. Not Mandy. She identified with the pretty, blue-eyed, blond victims. Disposable blondes, Ms. Conner. Beautiful women who exist simply for the deranged killer to savage first."

Rainie was still shaken by the time she pulled into the tiny commercial real estate building that housed Phil de Beers's office. Clouds had rolled in. The air crackled with electricity. A nearly full moon had to be up there somewhere, but the night had taken on a dense, suffocated feeling. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

She got out of her car hunch-shouldered and skittish, ready to shoot first, question later. Nine P.M. Kimberly should be back in the relative safety of her apartment. Quincy had probably wrapped things up with his boss at Quantico and was now returning to New York City. Rainie just needed to finish up two last chores, then it would be her turn.

Instead, she stopped in the middle of the empty parking lot and searched the inky black depths for something she couldn't name. Beyond her line of sight, she could hear cars humming by on the distant freeway. Four streetlamps bounced puddles of light off shiny black asphalt. The scent of honeysuckles and blackberries came to her, cloying and thick.

"Howdy, ma'am."

She startled, then whirled, her right hand already reaching for her Glock.

Phil de Beers stood in the doorway of the building, the spitting image of his Internet photo as he gazed at her curiously. "Want to come in?" he asked politely.

She shivered violently and nodded.

"Brewed some coffee," he said a moment later as he gestured her inside the building. "Don't know what it is about thunderstorms, God knows they generate enough humidity to drown a rat, but they always make me feel in need of a good hot drink. Or whiskey. But on account of this being a professional visit, I thought I'd stick with coffee."

"Bummer," Rainie said, and earned a wide, flashing smile from the small, neatly dressed black man.

"You caught me. I do have some good ol' sour mash…"

"Yeah," she said gloomily, "but I'm an alcoholic. I only get the coffee."

"Bummer," he echoed solemnly, and she decided that she liked him very much.

They went first to the tiny kitchenette shared by all the clients in the building. Phil splashed a delicate mist of whiskey into his brew. Rainie poured in cream and sugar until the private investigator began to laugh.

"I see some dependency issues," he commented.

"Sugar and fat are socially acceptable drugs."

"And you carry them well," he assured her, conducting an unabashed sweep of her figure before leading her into his office. He took a seat behind his desk in a positively sinful red leather chair. That left a hard, spindly old kitchen chair that she figured was designed to discourage lengthy visits.

Phil held up a small glass dish. "M amp;M's?" Rainie shook her head. He took a large handful. "I got some dependency issues, too," he admitted cheerfully and munched on the candy while she finished taking inventory of his office.

The space wasn't large but it was adequate. One wall contained two rows of bookshelves bearing thick volumes of Virginia State Law as well as piles of magazines. The other wall contained a gallery of framed prints. A diploma from the Virginia police academy. A variety of black and white photos showing de Beers with various men in suits. Probably important men in suits, Rainie thought, but now she was merely showing off her powers of deductive reasoning.

"Important person?" she asked, picking one photo at random.

"Director Freeh," he said.

"Director Freeh?"

De Beers flashed her that wide grin. "Head of the FBI."

"Oh yeah, that Director Freeh." Rainie shut up and drank her coffee. It would've been better with whiskey.

"So," de Beers said. "I've been watching Mary Olsen as you requested. Damn boring woman, Mrs. Mary Olsen. Didn't leave her house yesterday or today."

"That's not very helpful."

"No, but I got a contact at the phone company. I'll pull her records, give 'em a whirl. If you rattled the woman, she's probably not passing the time merely watching TV."

"She's checking in with people."

"There you go. 1 can get names, numbers, and addresses. Then what do you want me to do?"

"Fax me the phone numbers and names of whomever she's called the most. I know a state trooper who can check them out."

"I don't mind doing it."

"I want you to stay on Mary, in case phone calls are no longer enough. Oh, and here's a new name for you. Larry Tanz. He supposedly owns the restaurant where Mary Olsen used to work, and where Amanda Quincy worked up until the time of her death. I'd be curious to know if he suddenly paid his former employee a personal visit."

"Frightened women can be consoled long distance for only so long…"

"Absolutely." Rainie hesitated. "You carry, right? All the time? Heavily?"

De Beers gave her a look. "Uh oh. Now is when I get that not-so-fresh feeling anymore."

"We have evidence that my clients daughter didn't die in an automobile accident as originally reported," Rainie told him. "It was murder. Then last night in Philadelphia… Most likely the same man murdered my client's ex-wife. Brutally."