"You think maybe they could be heading back to the Dominican Republic? I think maybe."

Wouldn't that be lovely, I thought.

"Who knows?" I said.

"Do you think these gentlemen are dumb enough to have the murder weapon on them?" Jeff said, creaking the chair back and forth with a flexing wingtip. "My juries love murder weapons. Murder weapons and DNA. Have to give them a crossover episode of CSI and Law and Order these days. You know that. We find the gun, hopefully with a little blood on it, it'll be over before it starts."

A vivid picture of the gun and bloody bag in my toolshed flashed through my brain.

"I've worked in this borough for a while, Jeff," I said nonchalantly. "Dumb is something I never underestimate."

Jeff gave me some more red-carpet wattage as he smiled broadly again.

"You seem to have your end covered as usual, Detective," he said. "I'll head back to the office and get started on boiler-plating some search warrants. Soon as you get an address, we'll be ready to go. Maybe shoot for the death sentence on this one."

I NEARLY IMPLODED in my desk chair after Jeff Buslik had left the building.

I thought I could handle this. Because I was in charge of the case, I thought I could get out in front of everything. Now I wasn't sure. In fact, I doubted it.

I'd been lucky so far, but how much longer could that last? Not long with clear-eyed Jeff Buslik staring over my shoulder. He could sense guilt the way a shark can smell blood.

Twenty minutes later, Mike came in with a dozen Dunkin' Donuts and a Box O' Joe.

Wow, a keg of caffeine. I wasn't high-strung enough yet?

"What's the word?" I said.

Mike shook his head.

"Jelly?" he said, opening the box. "Nobody knows squat. It's hurry-up-and-wait time. Boston cream?"

The rest of the day and into the night was spent "no commenting" the reporters, who called by the half hour, and flipping through Scott's case files.

Scott had really been a terrific undercover, I soon discovered. He'd been loaned out on stings to the FBI and the ATF and had actually gotten to be the right-hand man of a high-level guy in the Cali cartel.

I found a picture of Scott, smiling along with the rest of his interagency task force, as they posed in front of a white sandbag wall of seized cocaine. Oh, Scott.

I shook my head as I slapped the file closed and opened another.

A born bullshit artist, I thought, and I actually had to go ahead and believe him.

The next time I looked up, the squad room windows were dark. What time was it?

Mike hung up his phone and growled like a bear awakened from hibernation two months early.

"Get this. These DEA geniuses have the Brothers Ordonez's location, and I quote, 'pinned down to this after-hours club they partially own in Mott Haven or to an apartment in the ass end of Brooklyn.' "

"That's some or," I said.

"My sentiments exactly. Bottom line, we're looking at a long night," Mike said. "It's your turn to crash. Go home and see what that husband of yours is looking like these days. Keep your cell phone on. The second I get the word, you'll get it. Go home."

I HEARD THE TV in the den when I came in. A lone voice followed by studio audience laughter. Letterman, probably. Great. He'd be doing a Top Ten about me and Paul soon enough.

I put my keys on the pub mirror and looked at the blue TV light spilling through the crack onto the runner of carpet in the hall. Of all the difficult things I'd done all day, this one felt like the hardest.

Nothing could quite top off a long day of covering up a murder like having to admit to your husband that you cheated on him.

I took a long lungful of oxygen, slowly let it out, and pushed the door open.

Paul was lying on the couch with a Yankees throw pulled up to his chin. He clicked off the set when he saw me standing there.

"Hey," he said with a smile. He still had a nice smile, even at the most inappropriate times.

I stared at him. I don't know what I was expecting, but a cheerful "hey" wasn't it. "Hey, slut" maybe.

"Hey, yourself?" I said tentatively.

I didn't know what the next dance step was supposed to be. Not even a wild guess. I'd never had Paul murder my lover before.

"How was work?" Paul asked me.

"Work was fine, Paul," I said. "Um, don't you think that maybe we should talk a little bit about last night?"

Paul lowered his eyes to the floor. Now maybe we were getting somewhere.

"I was pretty loaded, huh?" he said.

That's what generally happens when you practically polish off a bottle of scotch by yourself, I wanted to say. But I guess I needed to be supportive. I definitely needed Paul to open up, unburden himself. Tell me exactly what happened. Hear his side of things.

It would make things so much easier. He could get it off his chest, and I could tell him that he didn't have to worry, that I was already taking care of everything.

"What's going on, Paul?" I whispered. "You can tell me."

Paul glanced at me, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"My God, Lauren," he said. "My flight. It was a nightmare. There was this loud boom, and we started plum-meting. I was convinced it was another terrorist attack. That I was dead. Then it just stopped. The plane leveled out, but the pilot landed it in Groton. I never made it to Boston.

"It was like I'd been spared, you know? After we touched down, I rented a car and drove home. I guess I was still in shock when I got back in. I opened the bottle to have a drink to calm myself, and pretty soon, the bottle was my drink. Don't ask me what happened to my clothes. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

My face burned in the dark. Why was Paul lying to me now? Acting as if he wasn't aware I knew what was going on? On the other hand, it wasn't uncommon for murderers to enter a state of denial. Sometimes it was so impenetrable, it was like they themselves truly believed they didn't commit the crime. Was that it? Was Paul in shock and so racked with guilt that he'd become delusional?

"Paul!" I finally said. "Please!"

Paul looked up at me, confused.

"Please what?" he said.

My God, I thought. As if this wasn't hard enough. Was Paul playing some type of game with me? It was as if he didn't know I'd been there, too. That he thought Scott had been alone and…

Holy shit! That was it! A hand went to my gaping mouth. I couldn't believe it.

Paul didn't know that I'd been there!

Paul hadn't come to confront us, I realized. He must have seen an e-mail or two, suspected what was going on, and gone over to Scott's to deliver an ass kicking in order to scare him away from me. That's why he'd left without confronting me! And that was why he was acting oblivious now. He wasn't acting. Paul was oblivious!

Paul didn't know I'd cheated on him.