"They're not issuing permits. The mayor, or somebody. Didn't anybody tell you?"

Pellam felt the shock. He burned with a wave of sudden fever. A week's work, wasted.

Marty's death, wasted.

"I didn't hear. Did they say why?"

Lefkowitz said, "They found some shit on him. I don't know, pot or something. You guys…"

"Alan, Marty wasn't smoking when he died. I don't know what happened but it wasn't that. I found his stash. It hadn't been opened."

"Whatever… You know I don't have any choice."

"It wasn't Marty's fault." Pellam focused outside the glass and found he was staring directly into the window of Dutchess County Realty. The awning was down and the lights inside were on. There was nobody in the office.

"Well, I'm sorry, John. But you understand."

"Sure." Then it occurred to Pellam that there were two conversations going at once. He said, "Actually, no, Alan, I don't understand. What're you talking about?"

"I've got to let you go."

"Alan, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're fired, John."

"What?" Just like that?

"I thought that little incident a few years ago would have taught you a lesson."

In a low voice Pellam said, "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"I'm back at square one, thanks to you and Marty."

"I'm telling you Marty was murdered. It was a setup."

Lefkowitz seemed distracted. "Get the wagon to the New York office. We'll have your check waiting for you."

"Just-"

Lefkowitz said, "Sorry, John. I got no room for mistakes with this project."

He hung up.

"-like that?"

The first thing Meg Torrens did when she woke up: she put her two-carat diamond ring on her index finger then lay back in bed for fifteen minutes and tried to think about nothing.

It was a form of meditation she'd read about somewhere. It cleared your mind, made you healthier, relaxed you, made you more creative. It didn't always work, but even if not, the discipline required-working with your brain like an unruly puppy-seemed helpful. Marginally helpful. Mademoiselle helpful. Better Homes & Gardens helpful.

Beside her, Keith stirred slightly. His breathing was slow.

She glanced at him, closed her eyes.

Thinking about nothing.

A bird trilled in the distance, a truck shifted gears on the grade of Lampton Road.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

An instant before the alarm rang, she sensed it in her mind. An electronic Bzzzzt. Meg opened her eyes and just as the Seiko went off, reached over to tap the off button. She patted Keith on his solid shoulders. He was ten years older than Meg and had some serious businessman fat on him. But she didn't mind that. His legs and butt were thin; you could get away with a lot of belly if everything else stayed in line. He had a broad, handsome face, the face of an actor who played kindly merchants and railroad owners. His hair was dense and unruly and he forced it into shape with spray and split it with a ruler-straight part. Meg regularly talked him out of dye; she thought salt-and-pepper was sexy.

Keith reached up and squeezed her hand, muttering something. She moved closer to him, smelling the warm body sleep scent puff out from under the bellows of the sheet and comforter.

The tip-off was his wristwatch.

Keith groggily pulled the Rolex off his wrist and dropped it heavily on the bedside table. When he took off the watch she knew what was coming.

His hands began to wander.

"Honey…" she said, something of a protest. But let herself be pulled over to him.

They kissed. She pulled off the violet Victoria's Secret teddy he'd bought for her several months ago, offering the box shyly, as if he was worried she'd be offended.

The familiar routine began. He kissed her long, on her mouth, her chin, working downward. He lingered at her neck, taking her S-link chain in his mouth. He often did this and she wondered if the gold had a taste that he liked. Then his lips found her collarbone and he moved down toward her breasts and, slowly, slowly, to her contracted nipples.

When they made love Keith was energetic, simple, effective.

Meg was ready for him. Although from time to time she let her hands explore herself when she was taking a shower she hadn't done so since the last time they'd made love, a week ago. So now, even though it was morning, even though she wanted to bathe first, to brush her teeth, even though she didn't feel beautiful, even though she had to wake Sam in the next few minutes to get him moving in time for his schoolbus-despite all that, she felt the low kick inside her.

Meg smiled, kissed his chest and nipples, rolled him over on his back. She stroked him then moved down his belly. She felt her own passion swell when he began to grow inside her mouth.

This is what their romantic life had become-usually mornings, usually spontaneous. And Meg Torrens had no real complaints about it. True, they weren't youthfully passionate. But who is, after ten years of marriage? The compensation was that neither of them demanded too much from the other. Sex was comfortable, like browsing through antique stores or trying out new recipes. Diverting pleasures. Silent and a little anonymous. They'd learned not to intrude on each other's fantasies.

He nearly came and he held her head still. Then he sat up, rolled her over and kissed her breasts again, moved down. Licked her navel. He moved further down her trim body.

After five minutes she shuddered violently under the clever effort of his tongue and fingers. She lay gasping and smiling in the near darkness, trying to cement the moment.

Keith waited a gallant minute or two before mounting her. She held him fiercely and she moaned the way she knew he liked but was too shy to ask her for. She bit his ear. She dug nails into his back. She pressed her face against his soft, gray hair, through which a residue of sweat was building.

She curled her legs around him, she moaned again. Then, suddenly, her eyes snapped open.

The intrusion was like a slap. A spray of cold water.

No!

The memory of the sound wouldn't go away.

Bzzzzt.

She couldn't place it, but it intruded unrelentingly. It was spoiling the entire moment. She hated it.

No, no, go away, please.

Then, she remembered. At the same instant Keith gripped her furiously and squeezed the air from her lungs. She felt the contractions and the fierce tensing of his hips.

That was the intrusion-a sound.

Playing in her mind, over and over, was the satisfying whir of the film as it shot out of the man's Polaroid camera. She pictured his narrow face, she heard his voice. She saw the glossy dark scar. A machine gun. An Oldsmobile. You've lived here how long?

Keith rolled off. She pressed her legs together tightly and stretched. They lay together for five minutes. (Nothing, nothing, think about nothing!) Then slowly Meg sat up. A local? she thought angrily. He thought I was a local?

Who'd lived here ten years?

"Love you," Keith said.

"Me too."

She sat for a moment then saw her face in the mirror. A confused, frightened look in her eyes. She smiled at her husband and forced all thoughts of the location scout out of her mind. She swung out of bed and walked into the hall.

The bathroom was carpeted in black shag. The shower curtain was black with red roses on it and the walls were pink. (Meg couldn't decide whether the decor was eighteenth-century country or Victorian bordello.) She shook her head and tossed her light blonde hair with her fingers. It stuck out wildly in all directions from yesterday's spray and the electric curlers she set it with. It would take half an hour of diligent work to turn herself into a blond, bouffanted, real estate agent.