“Yeah.” He looked at Tess then. “Thanks. I do feel better.”

“If what happens gives you some trouble and you want to talk about it, call the station. They’ll give you my number.”

Before Gil was in the car, Ben had Tess by the arm, leading her away. “The department doesn’t approve of soliciting for patients at the scene.”

Tess shook off his arm. “Yes, you’re welcome, Detective. I’m glad I could help you get a coherent story out of your only witness.”

“We’d have gotten it out of him.” Ben cupped his hands around a match and lit a fresh cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harris arrive on the scene.

“You really hate it that I helped, don’t you? Because I’m a psychiatrist, I wonder, or because I’m a woman?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he warned, tossed his cigarette into the street, and immediately wished it back.

“I don’t have to psychoanalyze to see resentment, prejudice, and anger.” She broke off, realizing how close she was to losing control in public and creating a scene. “Ben, I know you didn’t want me to come, but I didn’t get in the way.”

“Get in the way?” He laughed and studied her face. “No, you’re a real pro, lady.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she murmured. She wanted to shout, to sit down, to just walk away. It took the rest of her control not to do any of those things. Whatever you begin, you finish. That, too, was part of her training. “I walked into that alley with you and stayed on the same level. I didn’t fall apart, get sick, run away. I didn’t get hysterical at the sight of a body, and that really bothers you.”

“Doctors are objective, right?”

“That’s right,” she said calmly, though Anne Reasoner’s face flashed into her mind. “But maybe it’ll soothe your ego to know that it wasn’t easy for me. I wanted to turn around and walk out of there.”

Something inside him jerked, but he ignored it. “You held up pretty good.”

“And that strips me of my femininity, maybe even my sexuality. You would have been happier if you’d had to carry me out of that alley. Never mind the interference or inconvenience. That would, have been more comfortable for you.”

“That’s bullshit.” He pulled out another cigarette, cursing himself because he realized it was true. “I work with plenty of women cops.”

“But you don’t sleep with them, do you, Ben?” She said it quietly, knowing she’d hit a button.

Eyes narrowed, he drew in smoke, long and deep. “Watch your step.”

“Yes, that’s just what I intend to do.” She pulled her gloves out of her pockets, realizing for the first time that her hands were freezing. The sun was up now, but the light was still murky. She didn’t think she’d ever been so cold. “Tell your captain that he’ll have an updated report by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fine. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

“I want to walk.”

“No.” He took her arm before she could turn away.

“You’ve mentioned that I’m a civilian enough times to know you can’t order me.”

“Press charges of harassment if you want, but you’re getting an escort home.”

“It’s two blocks,” she began, and his grip tightened.

“That’s right. Two blocks. Two blocks, and your name and picture have been in the paper.” With his free hand he gathered up her hair. It was nearly the same shade as Anne Reasoner’s. They both knew it. “Use some of those brains you’re so proud of, and think.”

“I’m not going to let you frighten me.”

“Fine, but you’re getting an escort home.” He kept his hand on her arm as he walked her to a cruiser.

The five detectives assigned to the Priest homicides logged better than two hundred sixty hours in legwork and paperwork in the week following Anne Reasoner’s murder. One of them had a spouse who threatened divorce, another worked through a nasty bout of the flu, and another around a chronic case of insomnia.

The fourth in the series of murders was the top story on both the six and eleven o’clock news, beating out such items as the President’s return from West Germany. For the moment Washington was more interested in murder than politics. NBC planned a four-part special.

Incredibly, manuscripts were being peddled to major publishers. More incredibly, offers were being made. Paramount was thinking miniseries. Anne Reasoner-in fact, none of the victims-had ever earned such attention alive.

Anne had lived alone. She had been a CPA attached to one of the city’s law firms. Her apartment had shown a taste for the avant garde, with neon, free-formed enameled sculptures and DayGlo flamingos. Her wardrobe had reflected her employer, running to softly tailored suits and silk blouses. She’d been able to afford Saks. She’d owned two Jane Fonda workout tapes, an IBM personal computer, and a Cuisinart. There was a man’s picture in a frame beside her bed, a quarter ounce of Colombian in her bureau drawer, and fresh flowers-white zinnias-on top of it.

She’d been a good employee. Only three days out sick since the first of the year. But her coworkers knew nothing about her social life. Her neighbors described her as friendly and described the man in the bedside picture as a frequent guest.

Her address book had been neatly ordered and nearly full. Many of the names were passing acquaintances and distant family, along with insurance brokers, an oral surgeon, and an aerobics instructor.

Then they located Suzanne Hudson, a graphic artist who had been Anne’s friend and confidante since college. Ben and Ed found her at home, in an apartment above a boutique. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and carrying a cup of coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen, with bruising shadows down to the cheekbones.

The sound on the television was off, but the Wheel of Fortune played on screen. Someone had just solved the puzzle: WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS.

After she let them in, she went to the couch and curled up her feet. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want it. I’m having a hard time making the effort to be sociable.”

“Thanks, anyway.” Ben took the opposite end of the couch and left the chair for Ed. “You knew Anne Reasoner pretty well.”

“Did you ever have a best friend? I don’t mean someone you just called the best, but someone who was?” Her short red hair hadn’t been tended to. She combed a hand through it and sent it into spikes. “I really loved her, you know? I still can’t quite grip the fact that she’s…” She bit down on the inside of her lip, then soothed the hurt with coffee. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

“I know. Ms. Hudson, it’s a hell of a time to bother you, but we need to ask you some questions.”

“John Carroll.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“John Carroll.” Suzanne repeated the name, then spelled it meticulously when Ed produced his notebook. “You wanted to know why Anne would have been out walking alone in the middle of the night, didn’t you?”

The grief and anger were there as she leaned forward and picked up an address book. With the coffee still in her hand, she used her thumb to page through it. “Here’s his address.” She passed the book to Ed.

“We have a John Carroll, a lawyer who was on staff at the firm Ms. Reasoner worked for.” Ed flipped back in his notes and coordinated the addresses.

“That’s right. That’s him.”

“He hasn’t come into the office for a couple of days.”

“Hiding,” she snapped. “He wouldn’t have the courage to come out and face what he’s done. If he comes tomorrow, if he dares to show his face tomorrow, I’ll spit in it.” Then she covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head. “No, no, it’s not right.” Fatigue came through now as she lowered her hand again. “She loved him. She really loved him. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years, ever since he joined the firm. Kept it quiet-his idea.” She took a big gulp of coffee and managed to keep her emotions in check. “He didn’t want office gossip. She went along with it. She went along with everything. You can’t imagine how much she swallowed for that man. Anne was the original Miss Independence- I’ve made it on my own and like it, single is an alternative life-style. She wasn’t militant, if you know what I mean, just content to carve out her own space. Until John.”