“Paul-”

“Talk about hardball. You lawyers are somethin’ else.” I heard the chink of ice in a crystal tumbler. He drank scotch, but never to excess before.

“Tell me how you got in.”

“I know this house better than you. I know which windows are loose and which aren’t. I spend more time here than you. You have to go out and make the proverbial big bucks.”

An old wound I thought we’d gotten over.

“Go ahead… say your line,” he said.

“What line?”

“Whenever I say that, you say, ‘Paul, you were bom with more money than I’ll ever make.’”

I didn’t like the way he imitated my voice. “I think you should go. Now.”

“Aw, come on, mang,” he said, Cuban again. “You’ll be happy I’m here when I tell you what I found out, Lucy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“All right, you’re the one who likes Lucy and Ricky anyway. All the time I’m hard at work, solving a murder. Where were you?”

“None of your business.”

The lamp came on, illuminating Paul’s face. He sat slumped in the leather Morris chair against the bookshelves, tumbler in hand, his head slightly to one side. “I know who murdered Patricia Sullivan.”

Christ. “Who?”

“Tell me where you were and I’ll tell you who.”

“Come on, Paul.”

“You’d like to have that answer, wouldn’t you? Because you’ve been wondering. Maybe even about me, who’s practically your fiancé.”

“Who is the killer?”

“But your practical fiancé has no alibi, you’ve been thinking. He says he was doing errands, but what errands? Does he have the receipts? What store clerks will remember him? Like you were asking my mother. How stupid do you think she is?”

“Who is the killer, Paul?”

“Not yet. Tell me who you were with tonight.”

I’d play a minute longer to get the answer. “My father.”

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. I called the hospital. They said he was sleeping. I even called your friends the poker players.”

Shit. “I visited my father, then I went to work.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Called there, too.”

“I was in the library.”

“You, not check your voice mail? Liar, liar, pants on fire. Are they, by the way? You’re home early.”

“I’m not going to play games with you, Paul. Tell me what you know or I go to the police.” I reached for the deadbolt and twisted it loud enough for him to hear.

“Guess what I found out? I found out where you were tonight. I just wanted to hear it from your own mouth.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know whether to believe him. “Who is the killer?”

“You lied to me.”

“You lied to me.”

“Oh, is that it?” he said, his tone angry. “Tit for tat? A retaliatory fuck?”

Don’t get sidetracked. “Who is the killer?”

“Morrone’s on the job, folks. All business. But she wasn’t working tonight, was she?”

“That’s it, I’m leaving.” I turned my back on him and opened the door.

“Aramingo Avenue, in the northeast. Greater Northeast, as they say on the news.”

I turned back. “Who?”

“Drives a blue motorcycle, paints. Plays guitar, of course. He ran a personal ad, that’s how they met. Only he didn’t mention he had a cocaine habit, even convicted of dealing, once. Or that he’s a very, very jealous young man.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tim Price.”

“How’d you get the address? Deductive reasoning?”

“‘Fraid not,” he said, half to himself. “I’m not a very good architect or I’d make more money, right? If you’re so smart, how come you’re not rich? Like Dad?”

I turned the knob. “I have to go.”

“I saw a letter he sent her, with the return address. He was crazy about her, but he was just a toy to her. So were we all. She played games, that woman.”

“Did they live together?”

“Sort of, but he was away a lot, and when the cat’s away, well… you hate clichés, don’t you? When I figured out the game, I broke up with her-when he figured it out, he killed her. Not a good game, was it? Not a safe game, like poker.”

Fuck you. “If he killed her, why did he leave his motorcycle behind?”

“I don’t know the mechanics of it, dear. No pun.”

“Then why do you say he’s the killer?”

“She told me she was afraid of him, that he’d hit her. Beaten her when he was high. Still, she let him come back. He had that bad-boy appeal some women like.” Paul held up his glass, examining its facets in the lamplight. “Long hair, maverick type. That your thing, too, Rita?”

He must know about Tobin. Maybe I’d been spotted by someone we both knew, or maybe he’d followed me to the restaurant. I felt afraid suddenly and fumbled for the doorknob behind me. “Be gone by morning,” I said, twisting the knob and walking out.

Behind me I heard the crash of a crystal tumbler hitting the wall. “Goddamn it! I live here, too! Rita!”

I started running to the car and didn’t stop until I was inside.

I booked a night at the Four Seasons, in a cushy room overlooking the fountain in Logan Square. Not that I enjoyed the view, I spent the time making phone calls. I called a twenty-four-hour lock service to change the locks again and secure all the windows. For an extra fifty bucks, they’d deliver the new keys to the hotel. I flipped through the Yellow Pages for a burglar alarm company, but there was no answer. Then I called Herman and canceled our date to go motorcyle shopping, since I already knew the motorcyclist’s address, and called my father. He sounded fine but wanted to know why Sal was so dressed up. Finally, I called Cam and told him our gig was moved up to tomorrow.

“Whatever you say, kiddo,” he said.

Then I grabbed a hotel pen and began to draft legal papers on the king-size bed. I’d never practiced family law, but then I’d never practiced criminal law either. I alleged I had reason to believe I was in danger from one Paul Harlan Hamilton, my live-in boyfriend, who had appeared drunk and disorderly at our former home. I asked the court to keep Paul two miles from the property and requested a hearing forthwith. I had the papers photocopied at the marbled front desk, and mailed and faxed a set to Paul’s office with a short note: The next time I find you in the house, I file this. With copies to your parents, the police, and the newspapers.

It was my first protection order, both as a lawyer and as a client. One for the scrapbook. And it was undoubtedly the first time the Four Seasons had served as a women’s shelter. I went back up to my room, chuckling. It was better than crying.

I flopped on the sea of bed and switched on the television. Spectravision, it said, which I guessed was a lot like Cinemascope. I muted the sound and the pictures flickered by in silence. A man and woman in jeans and sweatshirts clinked coffee mugs over a kitchen table. Dennis Hopper, still crazy after all these years, pushed Nikes. I was waiting for the eleven o’clock news, almost too sleepy to be curious about their coverage of the preliminary hearing, which seemed as if it happened ages ago.

I was still on the job, like Paul had said.

But I didn’t want to think about him now. And it turned out that I couldn’t anyway. After a fire in a Camden warehouse, Stan Julicher was the big news. His ruddy face, behind the black microphone bubbles, was animated by an almost religious zeal. Seated at a press table with him were a trio of TV feminists, angry women with no eyeliner and inmate hair.

“It’s no crime to look good, girlfriend,” I said to the TV. “No matter what Naomi Wolf says.” I clicked up the volume.

“It’s time for the citizens of this city to demand that Judge Hamilton step down,” Julicher was saying. “He is officially charged with the murder of a young woman, who may have died trying to vindicate her right to be free from sexual harassment. Yet the Honorable Fiske Hamilton sits in judgment of us.”

Christ. Julicher was pissed because he’d lost his meal ticket, and he was about to ruin Fiske.