Then something else occurred to him, made his heart lurch. The pictures. Joan had said that she had pictures of him in the London flat with two women. He certainly did not want the police to have those. He went next door to Joan's study and tried the drawers of her desk. Locked. He thought of trying to pick the lock with a letter opener, but reconsidered; he didn't want scratches on the lock.

Worried now, he went to Joan's dressing room and began searching; the keys turned up in the box where she kept inexpensive jewelry. He went to the desk and unlocked it; immediately he recognized the brown envelope, the kind used in every office in

Britain. He listened carefully to be sure Angus was not still about, then he shook out the photographs onto the desk. The first thing he saw was a closeup of his ass, the motion frozen. There were others, too, with the woman on top, with her head buried in his lap and a rather ecstatic look on his face, and there were, as Joan had said, two women. One was a countess, no less, the wife of his sometime dinner host, an earl-the sort of thing that divorce courts and the British tabloids would have loved. He looked into the envelope and found the negatives, and he was pitifully grateful to see them. There was also a slip of paper on which had been printed, "With the Compliments of the J. Morris Agency."

It took him a moment to figure out from where the shots had been taken, then he realized that, on at least two occasions, someone, probably Mr. J. Morris, himself, had been in the bedroom closet that Joan used when she was in London. The perfect vantage point; Sandy never opened that door.

He thought for a moment of the best way to dispose of these snapshots, someplace where the police would never find even a scrap of them. Not any of the fireplaces or trash baskets. He went into the kitchen, found a match and burned the pictures over the sink, turning on the garbage disposal to grind and flush away the ashes. He was tempted to keep one photograph-a lovely shot of the countess with his erect penis clasped in both her little hands- but, regretfully, he burned it with the rest.

He fell into bed, willing his mind to exclude any thought of what had happened that evening. He needed some time before he thought of that again.

Sandy slept solidly, dreamlessly until after nine in the morning, and when he awoke he felt the disorientation that he often knew in strange places, but never in his own bedroom. Then, before he could lift his head, the previous evening flooded back, and this time, he let it come. Best to face it, put it in perspective. He couldn't be blamed for what had happened to Joan, could he? After all, he had done everything in his power to stop it. Not exactly. He had started everything with the meeting in the park with Peter Martindale. But, of course, Joan, herself, bore some responsibility for what had happened to her, because of her treatment of him, didn't she. He considered that for a moment, then, with some effort, absolved himself of all guilt. It didn't work.

He found Angus in the kitchen eating cereal.

"Morning, Dad, how are you feeling?"

"All right, I think. Amazingly enough, I slept well."

Angus nodded. "So did I. It's a phenomenon called 'self-anesthetization,' I think; a defense of the mind."

"It really happened, didn't it?" Sandy asked.

"It did, I'm afraid. By the way, a Detective Duvivier called, asked that you phone him back. The number's on the pad by the phone."

"I'll call him in a little while," Sandy said, pouring himself some orange juice.

"Pretty fancy name for a cop, isn't it? Duvivier?"

"He's Haitian; a rather elegant fellow."

"Is he the one who thinks you had Mom killed?"

"I don't know if he really thinks that, or if he just had to ask."

"Don't worry, if he really suspected you, he'd have read you your rights first. If he didn't do that, he can't use anything you said against you."

"Why doesn't that make me feel better, I wonder?"

"About Duvivier?"

"Yes. I mean, although I had nothing to do with Joan's death, it's bad enough that a policeman might think I did."

"Never mind what he thinks," Angus said. "It's enough that you know you're innocent. If you didn't do it, he can't prove you did it, right?"

"How do you know all this police stuff, Angus? We didn't send you to law school, did we?"

"I never miss 'NYPD Blue'; it's an education."

Sandy nodded. "Are you on duty today?"

"I was, but I called in. Strangely enough, I think I could have worked, but I thought it might look funny if I came in only a few hours after my mother died."

"I appreciate your offer to go to Scotland; I don't think I would have wanted to make the trip."

"I was going to take a couple of weeks off after I'm certified, so I may as well start in Aberdeen."

Sandy finished his orange juice, went to the phone and called Duvivier.

"Good morning, Mr. Kinsolving," the detective said. "I hope you're feeling better."

"Thank you, yes; still a lot of disbelief, but I'm all right."

"I wanted to let you know that the medical examiner will release your wife's body on Tuesday morning. He will have finished his work by that time."

"Thank you. What do we do then?"

"Contact a funeral director; he'll know what to do."

"Detective, I spoke last evening with my son and my wife's brother; is there any reason why we should not have my wife's body cremated? We had planned to take her father's ashes to Scotland for burial in the family plot, and it occurred to us that Joan might have wanted her remains to be there, too."

"No reason whatever; once the ME has completed his examination, there are no restrictions on what you may do." He paused. "Mr. Kinsolving, I wanted to let you know ahead of time that I will be speaking with all sorts of people you know about this case. I didn't want you to find out from them."

"I understand. Speak with whomever you like; it's all right with me."

"Thank you, sir. Do you travel very much on business?"

"Yes, I'm in London about one week a month; I also visit the Napa and Sonoma Valleys from time to time, and I'm in France two or three times a year."

"When did you last travel, sir?"

"I returned from London last Monday, on hearing of my father-in-law's illness."

"And when do you plan to travel again?"

"Well, I had planned a trip to the West Coast this week, but under the circumstances that will be postponed until my wife's affairs are settled and some decisions have been made about the operation of the company without my father-in-law."

"So you plan to be in New York for at least another week?"

"At least. Detective, are you telling me not to leave town?"

"Oh, no, sir; I just wanted to know if you would be available if I should need to talk with you again."

"Of course. You can contact me at my office during the week, or at home at night. I hope very much to hear from you that you have caught the person responsible for this."

"I hope so, too, sir. Tell me, do you have any other telephone numbers at home-other than the one we're talking on?"

"Yes, we have two other lines, consecutive numbers; the third is for a fax machine."

"Thank you, Mr. Kinsolving; I won't keep you longer. Goodbye."

Sandy hung up the phone.

"He wanted to know all your phone numbers?" Angus asked.

"Yes."

"He probably wants to tap them."

"Tap my phones? Isn't that illegal?"

"Not if he gets a court order."

"Angus, you watch too much television." He was glad of it, though; he'd have to be careful on the phone.

• • •

After breakfast Sandy took Angus for a long walk in Central Park. He reflected that, although he lived only across the street from the park, he rarely went there. He resolved to take more walks. "How are you feeling about your mother?" Sandy asked.