“Of course.”

“Only other news is one of the guys from the 17th found some folders in a trash bin in the parking lot. Wallace thinks they came from Dogen’s office. They’ve got some bloodstains on ‘em, but then almost everything in the garbage here does.”

“What kind of folders?”

“Empty ones. Three or four. They seem to be sports-related stuff, not anything medical. Labels say things like Mets, Braves, Cubs. I knew she was a runner, but I guess she was a baseball freak, too.

“And the ex-husband’s due back in London on Monday, so we should be able to get some personal scoops on her from him.”

“Okay. I’ll be out doing errands in the neighborhood this afternoon. You taking tomorrow off I hope?”

“Yup. Got a hot one tonight with that reporter from the Italian magazine who did a feature on the Squad last month. Thought I’d take her to your place-Primola. Between Giuliano and Adolfo, they can charm her into forgetting I’m Irish.”

I tried to sound like I meant it when I told him to have a good time.

I scooped up an armful of clothes to take to the dry cleaners and three skirts for the tailor to shorten. Next door to that was the lingerie shop, where I stopped in to buy a dozen pairs of panty hose. The salesgirl talked me into some new lacy underwear-powder blue-to start the spring season, and I walked to the cash machine in the bank on the corner to replenish the supply I’d been doling out all day.

By the time I reached the nail salon, it was after three. I was overdue for a manicure and endured the loud gossip back and forth across the crowded space knowing I didn’t want to be the only woman at Joan’s dinner table without clipped cuticles and an even coat of polish.

I went home, fed Zac her late-afternoon meal, and walked her once more. Too restless to nap, I relaxed on my bed with the SaturdayTimes, struggling over the bottom left corner of the puzzle until I could work all the letters around the missing word to fill in the name Galle for the clue-German astronomer who discovered Neptune-that I was unable to come up with.

Joan’s Saturday-night dinner parties were fancy affairs and I was looking forward to a festive evening with her friends. It was always an occasion to dress elegantly and wear some of the jewelry my mother had collected over the years but let me keep in New York ever since she had moved to the Caribbean. I primped with great pleasure and called for a car to pick me up at a quarter to eight.

The housekeeper opened the door and took my coat as well as my drink order. Vases in the foyer and living room erupted with French tulips and pale coral roses. Joan was in the library regaling the first of her guests with a story about the production of one of her plays several years ago in an off-Broadway theater. She had made a remarkable transition from writing drama that was staged here and abroad to authoring novels, the latest of which had gone into its fourth printing.

Jim Hageville, the man Joan had fallen madly in love with when she met him during the winter, was the first to see me. He was a foreign affairs expert who wrote an internationally syndicated column, and both of them had been commuting on the shuttle for the first three months of the romance. Part of the reason for the dinner was to introduce him to some of Joan’s other friends.

We exchanged kisses and Joan brought me into the circle, telling the people I hadn’t met who I was, while I greeted the others I knew. Cocktails were served for an hour and I made small talk with the guests, shifting conversation away from the investigation when anyone asked about it.

Shortly after nine, Joan moved us into the dining area to find our seats at the three circular tables. “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you, kid,” she said, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “That adorable guy who was talking to you inside about theNew Yorker profile of your boss? He’s your dinner partner. Drew Renaud.”

Joan was repinning my antique brooch at a different angle on my dress as we stood at the door of the room. “Where’d you put his wife, Joanie? I saw the guy, but I also saw the wedding band,” I said, laughing at her machinations.

“He’s a widower, Alex.”

I bit down on my lip. “Whoops. Sorry. Glad I found out from you or I really would have stepped in it. Now, don’t tell me you’re playing matchmaker here. I’m going to kill you. You know I can’t stand being set-”

“Oh, stop it. It’s just a dinner party. He’s an old friend of Jim’s from Princeton. Partner at Milbank, Tweed. His wife had a brain tumor and died two years ago when she was thirty-seven. It’s a terrible story, and Drew’s just been coming out of it the past couple of months. So lighten up. Don’t be such a grouch, Alex. And stop blushing.

“Besides, you’ve got friends all over the room-it’s not a blind date. He’s been dying to meet you. Says you were on a panel together last year at the Bar Association but you were dating-ahem-something,I mean, someoneelse at the time. Turn your damn beeper off and let yourself go for the evening, will you?”

“I can’t believe you did this to me with no warning, Joanie,” I said, laughing at my own agitation, trying to get a glimpse of my hair and makeup in the mirror on the wall over her shoulder and reapplying my lipstick.

“That’s a smarter response, darling. I’ve put him right in between us and by tomorrow I’ll expect garlands in tribute and gratitude. You look great so just go take your seat.”

The guests were circling the tables to find their place cards. Drew was standing behind his chair waiting to help seat his hostess and me as we took our places on either side of him.

He picked up the thread of conversation that had started in the library quite easily and guided me back to our meeting the previous summer. I sipped my wine and ate the superb pâté de foie gras that Joan’s chef lad prepared, finding myself charmed by the warmth and wit of my dinner companion.

When the medallions of veal were served, accompanied by an incredible Margaux, I was conscious that I had started to flirt with Drew but uncertain about whether the cause was the wine or a genuine interest. I liked the way it felt again and I liked the sense of intoxication the whole evening had fostered.

We talked about acquaintances we had in common, the vacation he had taken the previous summer on my beloved Vineyard, Joan’s incomparable skills as both hostess and friend, and the books we were reading. We rambled on about dogs and movies and restaurants and basketball and nowhere did I get a sense-so frequently transmitted when I met men socially-that he confused my professional interest in crimes of sexual violence with my personal life. I had all but forgotten that Hugh Gainer was sitting on my other side, I had become so completely engaged in my conversation with Drew.

“You’ve been to the Palais Soubise, haven’t you, Alex?” Joan was asking. She had an astounding memory for all kinds of anecdotal information. “I really think it’s the most exquisite façade in Paris. Louis XIV built it for the Princesse de Soubise, you know. Whenever the Prince was on the road, theprincesse wore one emerald earring to court. That told Louis that the coast was clear,et voilà! Not a bad price to pay for the grandest home in town, don’t you think? Anyway, Hugh, you must be sure to see it when you’re over there. It’s divine.

“Coffee and brandy in the living room?”

We all rose from our seats and Drew brushed against me as he went past. My hand was on top of the chair back, pushing it under the table. He rested his own on top of mine and asked, “Want some cognac or-?”

“I’d love some.”

“You didn’t let me finish, Alex,” he said, talking softly into my ear. “Or would you rather come to my place for a nightcap?”

“I-uh-I don’t think I can do that. I sort of have to go home because-um-there’s a-well-” I was stammering as I found myself in the unusual situation of having to get back to the apartment to take a dog for a walk.