I caught my breath and ran to embrace Zac, kneeling beside her as I held on to make sure she hadn’t been hurt. My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” the man, who most resembled the nearsighted Mister Magoo, went on. “The dog wasn’t in any danger. It was onlyyou. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I answered, standing up and brushing myself off. “Whoever was driving must have been out of control, drinking or-”

“Whoever was driving looked like he was out to get you, if you ask me. Seemed deliberately to be heading for you.” He tugged at his dog to try to separate him from Zac, chuckling as he asked, “Want me to call the police? You got any enemies?”

“Too many to tell you about. Why? Did you notice the plate on the car?” I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous to think someone had been aiming for me with that car; at the same time it struck me as a distinct possibility.

“No. Fool turned his headlights off as he went through the light. Couldn’t see anything except that it was large and dark colored.”

I thanked him for his concern and stroked Zac’s smooth cocoa coat, holding her close against me-on the side away from the street-as we walked the short distance to my apartment.

I took my weekend charge upstairs with me and I undressed, carrying a nightcap into the bedroom in an effort to calm my nerves before trying to sleep. I wanted to believe the speeding car had just been an accidental swipe yet couldn’t help but wonder who wanted me dead.

SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH MY BEDROOM window for the first time in days. Last night’s episode seemed like a bad dream. Surely my imagination had overtaken reality.

Zac and I walked around the block the opposite way from the night before, avoiding the avenue where the speeding car had given me such a fright. I kept her back from the street traffic and walked toward the direction from which cars were coming so I could see them as they approached.

Upstairs again, I changed into my leotard and tights, then went down to the garage to retrieve the Jeep and drive it to the West Side. I parked in front of the building that housed my ballet teacher’s studio.

Five or six of the regulars had already assembled and were doing stretches on the smooth wooden floor. William came in and we took our places at the barres that ringed three walls of the room.

The music was Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B Minor. William seemed to adore thePathétique, and he held his shoulders back and his head majestically erect as he led us in a first position plié and relevé from the center of the room.

As always, it felt wonderful to lose myself in the music, straining to concentrate on the steps he called out to us over the crescendos of the rich orchestral arrangement. My mother had introduced me to ballet class when I was four years old and it still remained my favorite sort of exercise.

William danced with the American Ballet Theater for years before retiring to teach. The discipline and demands of the art form allowed me to escape whatever unpleasant matter I was working on for the hour that I remained under his spell.

He walked down the line of dancers, each of us holding our left hands on the lower barre, and studied our positions. “Tuck in your tummy, tuck in your tail, Judith,” he admonished the slender young woman behind me. “Shoulders back, Alex. Let’s see a nice line with those long legs, young lady.” I arched my foot and extended my toe as far as the soft white leather slipper would take me.

William paced us through second, fourth, and fifth positions, then we swept into a turn to repeat the same movements, holding on with our right hands. I glanced in the mirror as I shifted sides, picking out the professionals from among this troupe of frustrated ballerinas and fairy-tale princes. As a child, I used to get to the studio for the first class every Saturday morning with the girls my own age, then stay on through most of the sessions of the day watching the older ones perform the more complicated routines and mimicking their steps. I dreamed of the day that I could be Odette and Odile, Giselle or Coppelia, never expecting to make my stage in front of a jury box.

William directed us to the center of the floor, where we practiced pirouettes and fouettés until sweat dripped down the small of my back and ringlets formed at the base of my ponytail. I didn’t want the hour to end and be ejected from this fantasy world back to real life and time. But when theadagio lamentoso concluded, William bowed to the class and we returned the gesture, applauding lightly toward him in the tradition of students of the old-style masters.

I showered in the changing room and dressed in my weekend uniform of leggings and long shirt. Next stop was a parking garage on the East Side, as I hurried to Louis’ Salon on Fifty-seventh Street for a haircut and a few streaks to lighten the blond hair I had inherited through my mother’s Finnish genes. I hitched my beeper onto my waistband as I sat in Elsa’s chair while she wrapped the strands in tinfoil. “With any luck, this thing won’t go off ‘til my head’s out of the sink,” I said, patting the little black box that had become my lifeline to the police department.

“You’d give them quite a scare in the Homicide Squad if I let you out of here looking like this.”

I listened to Elsa’s recommendations of the latest movies and Broadway plays, which she somehow managed to see before I even knew they had opened. Like a conveyer belt, she passed me along to Louis, who cut an inch off my newly blonded locks while doing a skillful cross-examination about my love life. Ever the Frenchman, he despaired of my lack of a steady beau and was always trying to suggest ways for me to meet a man. Once he finished snipping, Nana styled me an elegant coif when I told her I was invited to a dinner party at a friend’s house for the evening.

Half the day was already shot. I drove home and deposited the Jeep back in the basement. The light on my answering machine was blinking when I got upstairs. Nina had returned my call and asked what was new on the case. Maureen was bored and just wanted to say hello. Chapman called to give me an update but had nothing serious to report.

I phoned Mid-Manhattan and asked for Mrs. Forester’s room. “Just a petit larceny so far,” she said after I told her about my morning. “I walked down to the solarium. Girl, it isthe place to be. Everybody’s whispering about whattheir doctor thought of Gemma Dogen-who liked her and who didn’t. I’m keeping lists for you.”

“What larceny are you talking about?” I asked.

“Don’t sound so concerned. While I was in the solarium, one of the aides came to pick up the lunch tray. She stood there behind the curtain, which was drawn around the bed, eating my leftovers. Half a piece of toast, the most tasteless cup of vanilla pudding you could imagine, and a slice of turkey. She didn’t realize she was on candid camera. Then she opened the drawer on the nightstand and looked through my cosmetic case. Guess she didn’t like my lipstick color ‘cause she looked it over good before she put it back in the bag. How many times a day you thinkthat goes on in these places, huh?”

“Lonely yet, Mo?”

“Not complaining. No beds to make, no dishes to do. Company’s coming later. Have fun tonight and give me a call.”

I beeped Chapman and went in the kitchen to have some yogurt while I waited for him to get back to me.

“I’m over at the hospital,” he said when he returned the call. “We’re reinterviewing most of the med school staff, trying to get more of a handle on Dogen this time. I think you should sit down with Dr. Spector yourself. He probably knew her better than anybody.

“I saw him for a few minutes this morning when he was checking on a patient postsurgically. He says he can see us Monday afternoon at two. Can you do it?”