Monks added more weight to Gwen's suspicion than he had given it before. He remembered his sense that Phyllis was stealthy. And she certainly had the skills and opportunity to administer poison to Eden Hale.

He decided it was time to push.

"Did Phyllis know about D'Anton's affair with Eden?" he said.

Gwen turned to him swiftly, eyes wide. "How did you know?"

"It's not going to be a secret much longer, Gwen. Is that why you lied to me, about not knowing her?"

There was a pause. It had the feel of being timed for effect. Then she sighed.

"All right, that was stupid of me," she said. "I should have known you'd find out. But no, that's not why. If Welles gets dragged through the mud, he deserves it."

"Why, then?"

"It will make more sense if I show you something," she said. "And then I'll work on making you forgive me."

She took his hand and led him around the house, in the opposite direction from the swimming pool. The original old structure, its windows unlit, jutted out ahead of them like a wing.

"This place has been in our family more than a hundred years," Gwen said. "On Julia's side. I spent a lot of time here, growing up."

"Our family?" he said, startled.

"She and I are cousins. I'm sorry. I guess you couldn't have known that."

Monks wasn't immediately sure how this new factor affected the mix, but it seemed to tighten things another notch.

She pushed open a door and touched a switch that turned on an overhead light. The space was large, two full stories high and taking up most of the wing. Apparently, the interior walls and upper floor had been taken out. The old hardwood floor was strewn with dust and rubble. There were a couple of large wooden workbenches and racks of stone-carving tools.

And the space was crowded with sculptures. All were human figures, and they all seemed to be of women – busts, torsos, a few full-sized. There were some clay models, but most were of stone. The style was classical, the forms lifelike. As best as he could judge, the renderings were competent – no more.

'This is how these parties got started," Gwen said. "Welles and Julia like to entertain. His patients, their social circle. Then Julia started inviting some of her models. It took on a life of its own."

"It does seem like an odd mix."

She shrugged. "The older guests are rich. Some are connected, film, modeling agencies, that sort of thing. They like having young, pretty people around. And they need money and favors. Most of them don't have any real talent."

Monks noted that it was the second time she had disdained them. And yet she, the fortyish hostess, ultra-sophisticated supermodel, was dressed like one of them, and had clearly loved being the center of attention – sparring like a teenaged cock-tease with the satyrlike Ivan. Monks wondered if her costume was a whim, or if there was a deeper element involved.

She walked to a figure that was draped and lifted away the canvas. This one was full-sized, a nude of a woman reclining on her side. It was unfinished, but the stone had an intrinsic quality – a sheen, almost a glow, that seemed to come from within.

"Is that marble?" he asked.

Gwen nodded. "Carrera. Julia got it from Italy. Recognize the model?"

He did not, at first. The delineation of the face had barely been started. But this piece stood out from the rest. The body was graceful, the pose sensuous, with thighs parted slightly in enticement, and Julia D'Anton had managed to capture a taunting element in the tilt of the head.

Then it clicked. "Eden," he said.

"Julia was a little-" Gwen hesitated, then said, "All right, I'll say it. In love with her. Then Eden started up with Welles. It hurt Julia badly."

"In love with, as in having an affair?"

Another hesitation. "Yes."

Monks gazed at the statue, and abruptly he saw the sorrow it contained – the passion the sculptress had invested, shimmering out through the muted glow of the stone. Accomplished or not technically, it was charged with emotion.

"Julia can be cruel," Gwen said. "A lot of people know it. So that's the reason I fibbed. I didn't want anyone to think she might have done something to Eden, for revenge."

"How do you mean, cruel?"

"Emotionally. When she's angry, she'll take it out on people. She was like that when she was young, and she never outgrew it."

"Why are you so sure she didn't do something?"

"I just am. I've known her all my life, for God's sake." Gwen let the drape fall back into place.

Monks was getting confused. Her words seemed to be leading in too many different directions. But it was not just that. Something was happening in his head that he could not quite grasp.

"How about D'Anton?" he said. "How well do you think you know him?"

"Since I was seventeen, when he and Julia met. He refined my face and gave me these." She touched her breasts. "And I've worked for him for eight years. Why? Do you suspect him?" She seemed amused at the thought.

Monks had been working his way toward something, but it slipped out of his recall. Gwen was watching him, eyes warm and lips parted. He stared at her, struck anew by her beauty, then turned away, trying to concentrate.

Roberta Massey, and the other girl who had gone missing, Katie. That was it.

"Gwen," he said. "Did you know that the police came to the clinic?" His voice sounded thick and slow to his own hearing.

She stepped to him, put her hands on his hips, and very lightly pressed her pelvis against him.

"No. But can't it wait?" she said, arching up to be kissed, lips open this time.

Monks imagined that he could feel the heat rising from her, a shimmer of delicious sensation seeking to enfold him. He held her, entranced by this ritual of human beings exploring each other's mouths with their tongues. It was very strange. But it was good. He remembered feebly that he had been thinking about something that had seemed important. But yes, that could wait.

"I feel like getting wet," she announced.

Feel like getting wet. The words spun disjointedly in his head. That was a strange way to put things. How could a person feel like getting wet?

She led him back the way they had come. Monks inhaled deeply, feeling the scents of the night cut into him in a heady rush, the eucalyptus, her perfume, smoke that he identified as marijuana. Bits of the conversations they passed joined feel like getting wet in his mind, swirling and reverberating with hidden importance.

told her I'd never ever

he came around with

five thousand? bullshit maybe twenty

There were more swimmers now, fluid shapes moving through the water or hanging on the sides. Monks was close enough now to see that the underwater lights revealed bare feet, legs, asses. He looked at Gwen in astonishment.

"No suits in the pool," she said, with a slight smile. 'That's the rule."

pool that's the rule

The marijuana smoke was thicker here, with glowing red dots traveling through the darkness a few feet at a time, pausing, traveling on. He had been catching more whiffs of the deep acrid smoke of harder drugs, too.

"It gives the young people a chance to get looked over," she said. "Arrangements get made."

Monks realized that almost all the swimmers were from the younger set. The older guests stood on the deck with drinks in hand, chatting or just watching.

He remembered what Gwen had said on the phone – like parties, but more focused.

Then he saw that one of the watchers was Julia D' Anton. She was alone, a little way apart from the crowd, wearing a long black dress and heavy dark eye shadow – another mourner for Eden. But she was gazing intently at the swimmers.

The term chickenhawk came into his mind.