"Let's order lunch," Henry said. "We've got a long afternoon of work ahead of us."

Over a club sandwich, Ted described his encounter with Elizabeth. "So you can forget yesterday's suggestion," he told Henry. "It's just as I thought. If I admit the possibility that I went back to Leila's apartment, when Elizabeth gets through testifying I'll be on my way to Attica."

It was a long afternoon. Ted listened as Henry Bartlett explained the theory of temporary insanity. "Leila had publicly rejected you; she had quit a play in which you invested four million dollars. The next day you pleaded with her for a reconciliation. She continued to insult you, to demand that you match her drink for drink."

"I could afford the tax write-off," Ted interrupted.

"You know that. I know it. But the guy on the jury who's behind in his car payments won't believe it."

"I refuse to concede that I might have killed Leila. I won't even consider it."

Bartlett 's face was becoming flushed. "Ted, you'd better understand I'm trying to help you. All right, you were smart to get a reading on Elizabeth Lange's reaction today. So we can't admit you might have gone back upstairs. If we don't claim a total blackout on your part, we have to destroy both Elizabeth Lange's testimony and the eyewitness'. One or the other: maybe. I've told you this before. Both: no."

"There's one possibility I'd like to explore," Craig suggested. "We've got psychiatric information on that so-called eyewitness. I'd suggested to Ted's first lawyer that we put a detective on her trail and get a more rounded picture of her. I still think that's a good idea."

"It is." Bartlett 's eyes disappeared beneath a heavy-lidded frown. "I wish it had been done a long time ago."

They are talking about me, Ted thought. They are discussing what can and cannot be done to win my eventual freedom as though I weren't here. A slow, hard anger that now seemed to be part of his persona made him want to lash out at them. Lash out at them? The lawyer who supposedly would win his case? The friend who had been his eyes and ears and voice these last months? But I don't want them to take my life out of my hands, Ted thought, and tasted the acid that suddenly washed his mouth. I can't blame them, but I can't trust them either. No matter what, it's as I've known right along: I have to take care of this myself.

Bartlett was still talking to Craig. "Have you an agency in mind?"

"Two or three. We've used them when there's been an internal problem we had to solve without publicity." He named the investigative agencies.

Bartlett nodded. "They're all fine. See which one can get right on the case. I want to know if Sally Ross is a drinker; if she has friends she confides in; if she's ever discussed the case with them; if any of them were with her the night Leila LaSalle died.

Don't forget, everyone's taking her word that she was in her apartment and happened to be looking at Leila's terrace at the precise moment Leila plunged off it."

He glanced at Ted. "With or without Teddy's help."

When Craig and Henry finally left him at quarter of five, Ted felt drained. Restlessly he switched on the television set and in a reflex gesture switched it off. He certainly wouldn't clear his mind by watching soap operas. A walk would feel good, a long, long walk where he could breathe in the salty spray of the ocean and maybe wander past his grandparents' house where he'd spent so much time as a kid.

Instead, he elected to shower. He went into the bathroom and for a moment stared at his reflection in the paneled mirror that covered half the wall around the oversize marble sink. Flecks of gray around his temples. Signs of strain around his eyes. A tautness around his mouth. Stress manifests itself both mentally and physically. He'd heard a pop psychologist deliver that line on a morning news program. No kidding, he thought.

Craig had suggested that they might share a two-bedroom unit. Ted hadn't answered, and obviously Craig got the message; he hadn't pursued the idea.

Wouldn't it be nice if everybody understood without being told that you needed a certain amount of space? He stripped and tossed his discarded clothes into the bathroom hamper. With a half-smile he remembered how Kathy, his wife, had gotten him out of the habit of dropping clothes as he stepped out of them. "I don't care how rich your family is," she would chide. "I think it's disgusting to expect another human being to pick your laundry off the floor."

"But it's distinguished laundry."

His face in her hair. The scent she always used, a twenty-dollar cologne. "Save your money. I can't wear expensive perfume. It overwhelms me."

The icy shower helped to relieve the dull, throbbing headache. Feeling somewhat better, Ted wrapped the terry-cloth robe around him, rang for the maid and requested iced tea. It would have been enjoyable to sit on the deck, but too much of a risk. He didn't want to get into a conversation with someone walking by. Cheryl. It would be just like her to "accidentally" pass. Good God, would she never get over their casual affair? She was beautiful, she had been amusing and she did have a certain hardheaded ability to cut through the bull-but even if he didn't have the trial hanging over his head, there was no way he would get involved with her again.

He settled on the couch, where he could look out on the ocean and watch the sea gulls arcing over the foaming surf, beyond the threat of the undertow, beyond the power of the waves to crash them against the rocks.

He felt himself begin to perspire as the prospect of the trial loomed in his mind. Impatiently, he got up and pushed open the door to the side deck. Late August usually carried this welcome tang of chill. He put his hands on the railing.

When had he begun to realize that he and Leila wouldn't make it, in the long run? The mistrust for men so ingrained in her head had become intolerable. Was that the reason he'd overruled Craig's advice and put the millions in her play? Subconsciously had he hoped that she would get so caught up in a smash hit that she would decide she didn't want to accept the social demands of his life, or his desire for a family? Leila was an actress-first, last, always. She talked about wanting a child, but it wasn't true. She had satisfied her maternal instincts by raising Elizabeth.

The sun was beginning to lower over the Pacific. The air was filled with the humming of the crickets and the katydids. Evening. Dinner. He could already see the expressions on the faces around the table. Min and Helmut, phony smiles, worried eyes. Craig trying to read his mind. Syd, a certain defiant nervousness about him. How much did Syd owe the wrong people for the money he'd put into the play? How much was Syd hoping to borrow? How much was his testimony worth? Cheryl, all seductive enticement. Alvirah Meehan, fiddling with that damn sunburst pin, her eyes snapping with curiosity. Henry watching Elizabeth through the glass partition. Elizabeth, her face cold and scornful, studying them all.

Ted glanced down. The bungalow was set on slop-ing ground, and the side veranda jutted out over a ten-foot drop. He stared at the red-flowered bushes below. Images formed in his mind, and he rushed back inside.

He was still trembling when the maid came with the iced tea. Heedless of the delicate satin puff, he threw himself down on the massive king-size bed. He wished that dinner were over; that the night, with all it entailed, were over.

His mouth curved in a grim attempt at a smile. Why was he wishing the evening away? What kind of dinners do they serve in prison? he wondered.

He would have plenty of evenings to find out.