The hyperventilation had turned to disgust. "You got no reason to bring my boy into this. He's a good kid, detective. He doesn't have the eye for women that I do, but he'll grow up. You leave him alone."

I knew Mike didn't need Joe Berk's help to get an address for Briggs. He was just pushing the old man's buttons to see whether he could find a hot one. "I only want to ask him a few questions. I know from the night of your accident he had the key to your place."

"Yeah? That makes him a crook? So my niece was in here, too, that night."

"That was after the murder, Joe. Mona was here after the glove was found at the Met. You're telling me I can't talk to Briggs?"

"I don't want to see his name in the papers, okay? He's out in Los Angeles for a week or two. He's helping his brother close a big deal for BerkAir. He comes back, be my guest."

Berk shuffled over to the elevator and pressed the button, waiting for it to open.

"You send him out of town to get over the girl?" Mike asked.

"He's like his old man, detective. The girls love him. Two weeks out in Malibu he'll find someone more his type. More my type, too. You need somebody to pick up the pieces of what's-her-name's broken bones? Lucy? Talk to Alden."

"What?"

"Hubert Alden. That's his kind of trash."

"You were pretty sure of that when you suggested to Mr. Vicci that he dangle Lucy in front of Alden at the audition."

Berk stepped in the elevator and turned to face us. "That wasn't the first time Alden saw the girl. I know my players, detective. You look surprised. Did he tell you something different?"

Mike's expression must have given him away. "You're certain of that?"

"I'm not a mentalist, sonny. I'm no Houdini. The girl was two-timing my kid with Alden. I saw it with my very own eyes."

The doors closed and Joe Berk vanished without telling us when or where.

"We can stop for lunch, swing by your apartment to pick up whatever you need, and I can still get you to the airport for the three o'clock shuttle to Boston."

"That's fine. What are you in the mood for?"

"Fresco," Mike said. "Can you get us in?"

The Scottos ran a superb restaurant on East 52nd Street, packed with a power crowd at lunch as well as in the evening. I called and Marian sneaked us into a table in the bar, skirting us past folks who'd reserved the prime tables in the main dining room.

"Don't be doing one of those salad things on me," Mike said, opening the extensive menu. "The food's too good."

"You're right," I said, asking the waiter for cavatelli with sausage and broccoli rabe, while Mike ordered the grilled bronzino.

As hard as I tried to bring the conversation around to how he was dealing with Valerie's death, he wouldn't allow me to go there. As soon as we got off the subject of work, he snapped back into an introspective-almost sullen-mood.

Mike waited in the car while I went up to my apartment to change out of my chalk-striped business suit and heels into a turtleneck sweater, slacks, and my driving moccasins. The Vineyard would be cooler than the city, especially at night. I kept enough clothes there so I didn't have to carry a suitcase back and forth, and had only a small tote with some things I'd bought for the house since my last trip.

At that hour of the afternoon, the ride to LaGuardia was only twenty minutes from the Upper East Side. We talked about our impressions of the characters we had met in the case, and what secrets each seemed to be hiding from us, and then I asked Mike how he planned to spend the weekend as we approached the US Airways terminal for my flight.

"I'll see what Peterson turns up on Ralph Harney. We've still got to cross-check background and alibis on all the guys who live on Staten Island or near the Watchung Mountains."

"How about Chet Dobbis?"

"I want to do him myself. Try to get to Hubert Alden's office, too. See what he's like in his natural habitat."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone who presents himself to us so cleanly has a seamier side. You'll call me if you get anywhere, won't you?"

"Sure. When does Joanie arrive?"

"Tomorrow. She's flying up from D.C., so we were supposed to meet in Boston and go over together in the morning. I'll call her to explain when I get there."

"You don't mind being alone tonight, do you? Your letter bomber's behind bars."

I smiled at Mike. "You didn't give me much choice, did you?"

"Bring me a doggy bag, Coop."

"I know. Fried clams from the Bite," I said. Mike had spent a lot of time with me on the Vineyard over the years, and agreed that the most delicious clams in the universe, as I liked to brag, were served from a little wooden shack in Menemsha, owned by my old friends the Quinn sisters.

"And give my love to the Baroness von Clam," he said, referring to the nickname he'd bestowed on Karen Quinn, who flirted with him notoriously whenever we showed up for lunch.

"Will do." I said good-bye and walked through the revolving door to buy my e-ticket at the kiosk. I couldn't remember another occasion when Mike had dropped me off without parking the car and hanging out with me until flight time, but then everything seemed slightly different these days since Val's death.

I made my way through the metal detectors and sat-shoeless- to be wanded and patted down by the security crew. The plane was late coming in from Boston, so there was a delay in the servicing before we boarded.

I sat alone at a window seat for die smooth fifty-minute flight, then repeated the check-in process again at the busy Cape Air counter, which rolled out its tiny Cessnas to the Vineyard and Nantucket, Hyannis and Providence, with impressive order and timeliness.

The flight was full-a pilot and eight passengers-so I settled quickly into place in the cramped cabin. I tucked my legs in front of me to make room for the man who took the seat next to me, separated by a space so narrow that one could hardly describe it as an aisle, and made the mistake of engaging him by thanking him for waiting while I got comfortable and fastened my belt.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

I held up the book jacket. "Daniel Deronda."

"That's the author?"

"No, it's the name of the novel. George Eliot wrote it-her last book."

The two propellers were revved up to maximum speed as we started to pull away from the terminal. Their noise and the likelihood of bouncing around in the air pockets frequently encountered at the low altitude of Cape Air's short flights made conversation difficult most of the time. That and the fact that I was reading an obscure Victorian novel probably known only to English literature devotees and librarians these days should have been enough to ensure that my seat partner left me alone.

As the plane vibrated on the deeply potholed runway, my neighbor leaned his head in toward me. "What do you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked what you do for a living."

I gave him my best grin. "I'm a single mom. Four kids."

I had gotten from coast to coast and from New York to Europe several times without ever having to make small talk to guys sitting next to me after giving that answer. It was a foolproof conversation killer with lonely businessmen angling for a pickup.

"That's great. How old are they?"

He was either lying or dumber than he looked. "Six, four, and the twins-they're two. I've cornered the market on diapers."

I smiled and put my nose back in the book until he spoke again. "I love kids. You have pictures?"

"They're in my tote. I gate-checked it." I assumed he was a comic or a pedophile, seemingly undaunted by my imaginary brood. But I liked his face, despite my initial instincts. His nose was crooked and he had wire-rimmed glasses that sat too far down on its bridge to look comfortable, but showed off the gray-blue cast of his eyes.