“It could be a false leak.”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe she visited his apartment. To talk business.”

“And left stray pubic hairs behind?”

“Maybe she used the bathroom. Maybe she-”

“Myron?”

“What?”

“Please don't go into further detail, thank you. There is something else to consider.”

“What?”

“The E-Z Pass records.”

“Right,” Myron said. “She crossed the Washington Bridge an hour after the murder. We know that. But maybe that fits now. Esperanza and Clu have a big argument at the parking garage. Esperanza wants to clear the air. So she drives out to his apartment.”

“And when she gets there?”

“I don't know. Maybe she saw the body and panicked.”

“Yes, of course,” Win said. “So she ripped out a few pubic hairs and ran.”

“I didn't say it was her first visit out there.”

“Indeed not.”

“What do you mean?”

“The E-Z Pass records for the Ford Taurus. According to the bill that arrived last week, the car crossed the bridge eighteen times in the past month.”

Myron frowned. “You're kidding.”

“Yes, I am a mirthful fellow. I also took the liberty of checking the month before. Sixteen crosses of the Washington Bridge.”

“Maybe she had another reason for going out to North Jersey.”

“Yes, of course. The malls in Paramus are quite an attraction.”

“Okay,” Myron said. “Let's assume they were having an affair.”

“That would seem most prudent, especially since it offers a reasonable explanation for much that has happened.”

“How's that?”

“It would explain Esperanza's silence.”

“How?”

“Lovers always make wonderful suspects,” Win said. “If, for example, Esperanza and Clu were dancing the sheet mambo, then we can assume that the altercation in the parking garage was something of a lovers' tiff. All in all, this development looks bad for her. She would want to hide it.”

“But from us?” Myron countered.

“Yes.”

“Why? She trusts us.”

“Several reasons come to mind. Her attorney probably ordered her not to say anything.”

“That wouldn't stop her.”

“It might. But more important, Esperanza was probably embarrassed. You have recently promoted her to partner. She was in charge of the entire operation. I know that you believe Esperanza is too tough to care about such things, but I do not think she would relish your disapproval.”

Myron mulled that one over. It made some sense, but he wasn't sure he bought it entirely. “I still think we're missing something.”

“That's because we're ignoring the strongest motive for her keeping silent.”

“That being?”

“She killed him.”

Win hung up on that cheery note. Myron took Northfield Avenue toward Livingston. The familiar landmarks of his hometown popped into view. He thought about the news report and what Win had said. Could Esperanza be the mystery woman, the reason for Clu and Bonnie's breakup? If so, why wouldn't Bonnie say that? Maybe she didn't know. Or maybe-

Hold the phone.

Maybe Clu and Esperanza met up at Take A Guess. Did they go there together or just bump into each other? Is that how the affair started? Did they go there and participate in -in whatever? Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they both arrived there in disguise and didn't realize who they were until, well, it was too late to stop? Did that make sense?

He made the right at Nero's Restaurant and onto Hobart Gap Road. Not far now. He was in the land of his childhood-check that, his entire life. He had lived here with his parents until a year or so ago, when he finally severed the apron strings and moved in with Jessica. Psychologists and psychiatrists and the like, he knew, would have a field day with the fact that he had lived with his parents into his thirties, theorizing all kinds of unnatural preoccupations that kept him so close to Mom and Dad. Maybe they'd be right. But for Myron, the answer had been far simpler. He liked them. Yes, they could be pests-what parents weren't?-and they liked to pry. But most of the pestering and prying were over the incidentals. They had given him privacy yet made him feel cared for and wanted. Was that unhealthy? Maybe. But it seemed a damn sight better than his friends who thrived on blaming their parents for any unhappiness in their lives.

He turned onto his street. The old neighborhood was wholly unspectacular. There were thousands like it in New Jersey, hundreds of thousands throughout the US of A.This was suburbia, the backbone of this country, the battleground of the fabled American Dream. Corny to say, but Myron loved it here. Sure, there was unhappiness and dissatisfaction and fights and all that, but he still thought that this was the “ dealest” place he had ever been. He loved the basketball court in the driveway and the training wheels on the new two-wheelers and the routine and the walking to school and the, caring too much about the color of the grass. This was living. This was what it was all about.

In the end Myron guessed that he and Jessica had broken up for all the classic reasons, albeit with a gender twist. He wanted to settle down, buy a house in the 'burbs, raise a family; Jessica, fearing commitment, did not. He pulled into the driveway now, shaking his head. Too simple an explanation. Too pat. The commitment stuff had been an ongoing source of tension, no question, but there was more to it. There was the recent tragedy, for one thing.

There was Brenda.

Mom rushed out the door, sprinting toward him with her arms spread wide. She always greeted him like he was a recently released POW, but today was something extra special. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. Dad trailed behind, equally excited but playing it cool. Dad had always been about balance, the total love without the smothering, the caring without pushing. An amazing man, his father. When Dad reached him, there was no handshake. The two men hugged fiercely and without any hint of embarrassment. Myron kissed his father's cheek. The familiar feel of Dad's rough skin made him understand a bit what Mrs. Palms was trying to accomplish with the wallpapered images.

“Are you hungry?” Mom asked. Always her opening gambit.

“A little.”

“You want me to fix something?”

Everyone froze. Dad made a face. “You're going to cook?”

“What's the big deal?”

“Let me make sure I have the number of poison control.”

“Oh, Al, that's so funny. Ha-ha, I can't stop laughing. What a funny man your father is, Myron.”

“Actually, Ellen, go ahead and cook something. I need to drop a few pounds.”

“Wow, what a knee slapper, Al. You're killing me here.”

“Better than a fat farm.”

“Ho-ho.”

“Just the thought is better than an appetite suppressor.”

“It's like being married to Shecky Greene.” But she was smiling.

They were in the house now. Dad took Mom's hand. “Let me show you something, Ellen,” Dad said. “See that big metal box over there? That's called an oven. O-v-e-n. Oven. See that knob, the one with all the numbers on it? That's how you turn it on.”

“You're funnier than a sober Foster Brooks, Al.”

But they were all smiling now. Dad was speaking the truth. Mom didn't cook. Almost never did. Her culinary skills could cause a prison riot. When he was a kid, Myron's favorite home-cooked dinner was Dad's scrambled eggs. Mom was an early career woman. The kitchen was a place to read magazines.

“What do you want to eat, Myron?” Mom asked. “Chinese maybe. From Fong's?”

“Sure.”

“Al, call Fong's. Order something.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure you get shrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I know.”

“Myron loves Fong's tshrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I know, Ellen. I raised him too, remember?”

“You might forget.”

“We've been ordering from Fong's for twenty-three years. We always order shrimp with lobster sauce.”