The driver’s head turned slightly to find her reflection in his rearview mirror. He looked away quickly, as though she had caught him at something.

Now what was that about?

“I want you to take the bodyguard.” The old don’s voice was insistent, but not so confident anymore. “I’m going to give you a man I would trust with my own life.”

“So you’re still worried that it’s all going to come back on you.” And if she didn’t live through the night, it would. Buying Blakely had been a bad mistake, and the payoff trail to a senator had left the old Mafia don vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before his own people realized what a liability he was.

She caught the eyes of the young driver in the rearview mirror. Was this man suddenly worried too?

“Cops don’t need bodyguards.” Her eyes traveled over the car’s lush appointments, looking for the thing that didn’t belong here.

“Cops don’t usually have gunmen after them,” said the don, as though explaining elementary facts of life to a small child.

“Yeah, they do-every time they hit the street.” Her eyes were fixed on an irregular upholstery stud near the glass partition. She leaned closer. The black stud was not leather but plastic, and it had three machine-made holes. She pulled it from the plush leather. It came out easily, only anchored by a pin. She blew a shrill whistle into the small plastic transmitter.

On the other side of the glass wall, the driver put one hand to the ear where the receiver must be hidden. There was real pain in the mirror reflection of his eyes.

The old man looked from the driver to the eavesdropping device in Mallory’s hand. Eyes rounded with shock, he knew he had been betrayed, yet he tried to deny it with the slow shake of his head.

Mallory knew everything in the don’s mind: This could not be happening, not to him, not at the hands of his own family.

“Soundproof? Bugproof? Don’t you wonder who your driver reports to?” Mallory touched the button to lower the glass partition. “Let’s ask him.”

The man at the wheel was turning around, one hand fumbling in his coat where the holster would be. She was already pointing her revolver at the driver’s face-and the bulletproof glass was sliding down.

The driver left the car at a dead run. Across the street, Frank the doorman was averting his eyes from the running man with the gun in his hand. Frank was a good New Yorker. What he did not see, he could not witness to in court at the cost of a day’s pay.

When the running gunman was out of sight, Mallory holstered her revolver and turned back to the old don. “Was that one of your hotshot bodyguards?”

Angry now, the don reached for the car phone. “That punk is a dead man.”

Mallory grabbed his wrist. It took very little effort to restrain him. “Who are you going to call? Another bodyguard? One of your nephew’s kids?” She sat quietly for all the time it took him to grasp this simple thing-he was the dead man.

She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “Might be smarter to call a cab and head for the airport.” She closed the door slowly, saying, “Don’t light in any one place for too long. You know the drill, old man.”

Mallory crossed the street to the condominium. Frank the doorman was smiling as he held the door open. “Two cops came by, miss.” He followed her into the lobby. “They showed me their badges and told me to let them into your apartment.” He pushed the button to fetch her an elevator. “But they didn’t have a warrant, so I told them to go screw themselves into the ground. I hope I did the right thing.”

She put two twenty-dollar bills into his coat pocket to tell him he had done exactly the right thing.

The elevator doors opened, and she looked up to the mirror mounted high on the back wall. It gave her a compressed view of an empty interior. When she stepped off the elevator at her floor, she had her revolver out of the holster. The gun preceded her into the apartment. After checking all the rooms and closets, she sat down on the couch and rifled her tote bag for the cellular phone.

It was gone. But where-

She checked her watch again. Now she reached over to the standard telephone on the end table and dialed Father Brenner’s number.

Where is the damn cellular?

While she talked to the priest, she searched the drawer of the table-a futile activity. Mrs. Ortega, world’s foremost cleaning woman, had put the apartment back in order after the robbery. So what were the odds that a single item would be out of place? Where had she lost the damn cellular phone?

She finished her instructions to Father Brenner. “I want you to say a mass for her.”

“Consider it done, Kathy. What was your mother’s name?”

“You don’t need her name. When you talk about her, just say she was a woman who was brutally murdered. And leave me out of it.”

She glanced at the messages accumulated on her answering machine.

“Kathy?”

“That’s all you get. It’s enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ll say the mass tomorrow.”

“No, do it tonight, I need it tonight.”

“All right, tonight it is. So you’re not looking for spiritual comfort for yourself?”

“No. You can save that routine for the believers, the suckers.”

“Are you still lighting the candles, Kathy?”

Mallory hung up the phone.

She emptied the tote bag on the coffee table, and spread the files and notebooks-not here. The last time she had seen the cellular phone it was in this bag, wasn’t it? No, wait. She remembered sliding it into the pocket of her blazer last night. She reached out for the desk phone, ignored the pulsing light of the messages waiting, and pushed the buttons for the number of her cellular phone.

“Hello?”

The voice was Andrew’s. So she had left it behind on the roof. “Hello, Andrew. How are you?”

“Oh, Mallory. I was hoping you might call. Shall I give you your messages?”

“Sure.”

“You have one from Jack Coffey. He says the chief’s boys are after you with orders to bring you in. Oh, and J. L. Quinn called and asked for you. But he didn’t leave a message.”

“Did Quinn say anything?”

“Well, we did have a lovely chat. But there’s no message. He said he’d probably catch up with you later in the day.”

“Thank you, Andrew.”

Picking up a spare phone from her office was next on her list of things to do. It was shaping up to be a busy day. She pulled out her notebook and ticked off what she would need from her apartment.

The doorman called on the house phone to announce J. L. Quinn. She should tell Frank to turn the man away. Time was precious, and she had already stayed here too long. What could Quinn want now? Perhaps his long chat with Andrew had raised a few questions.

“Send him up, Frank.”

When she admitted Quinn to her apartment, he was wearing his courtesy smile. She was learning to categorize his facial expressions, discovering small variations in the mask. He casually examined the surroundings, as if he were looking for something.

She remained standing and folded her arms to let him know he would not be staying long. When he turned to face her, his smile was unaltered, but his eyebrows were raised, and she knew he was going to apologize.

“Sorry to drop by without calling first, but if you recall, the only number you gave me was for the cellular phone, and it seems that Andrew Bliss has that.”

He glanced at the long leather couch, probably waiting for an invitation to sit down. She ignored the subtlety.

“So, Quinn, I understand you had a long talk with Andrew.”

“Yes, he told me he made a confession to a green-eyed angel. I was surprised you hadn’t arrested him.”

“Andrew’s idea of confession is my idea of a rambling drunk. I think we got as far as the sins of puberty. What do you want, Quinn?”

He was staring at the walls, bare but for the single clock, a piece of minimal design with dots in place of numerals. The furnishings of her apartment were expensive, and stark. There should be nothing here to give away any shading of her personality. But by the faint nod of his head, she knew these environs were what he had expected to find; that much was in his face when he turned back to her.