You hate your government but never your people. Your homeland is your homeland. Always."

He turned to me. Our eyes locked.

"And that's why she ran?"

He just stood there.

"That was her reasoning?" I said, almost shouting. I felt something in my blood tick. "Because her homeland was always her homeland?"

"You're not listening."

"No, Sosh, I'm listening. Your homeland is your homeland. That's a load of crap. How about your family is your family? How about your husband is your husband-or more to the point, how about your son is your son?"

He did not reply.

"What about us, Sosh? What about me and Dad?"

"I don't have an answer for you, Pavel."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No."

"Is that the truth?"

It IS.

"But you could find her, couldn't you?"

He didn't nod but he didn't shake his head either.

"You have a child," Sosh said to me. "You have a good career."

"So?"

"So this is all so long ago. The past is for the dead, Pavel. You don't want to bring the dead back. You want to bury them and move on." "My mother isn't dead," I said. "Is she?" "I don't know." "So why are you talking about the dead? And Sosh? While we're talking about the dead, here's one more thing to chew over"-I couldn't stop myself, so I just said it-"I'm not even sure my sister is dead any more."

I expected to see shock on his face. I didn't. He barely seemed surprised.

"To you," he said.

"To me, what?"

"To you," he said, "they should both be dead."

I shook off Uncle Sosh's words and headed back through the Lincoln Tunnel. I needed to focus on two things and two things only: Focus One, convict those two damned sons of bitches who had raped Chamique Johnson. And Focus Two, find out where the hell Gil Perez had been for the past twenty years.

I checked the address Detective York had given me for the witness/girlfriend. Raya Singh worked at an Indian restaurant called Curry Up and Wait. I hate pun titles. Or do I love them? Lets go with love.

I was on my way.

I still had the picture of my father in the front seat. I didn't much worry about those KGB allegations. I had almost expected it after my conversation with Sosh. But now I read the index card again:

THE FIRST SKELETON

The First. That again implied that more would be coming. Clearly Monsieur Jenrette, probably with financial help from Marantz, was sparing no expense. If they found out about those old accusations against my father more than twenty-five years old now they were clearly desperate and hungry.

What would they find?

I was not a bad guy. But I wasn't perfect either. No one was. They would find something. They would blow it out of proportion. It could seriously damage JaneCare, my reputation, my political ambition-but then again Chamique had skeletons too. I had convinced her to take them all out and show them to the world.

Could I ask less of myself?

When I arrived at the Indian restaurant, I threw the car into Park and turned off the ignition. I was not in my jurisdiction, but I didn't think that would matter much. I took a look out the car window, thought again about that skeleton and called Loren Muse. When she answered I identified myself and said, "I may have a small problem."

"What's that?" Muse asked.

"Jenrette's father is coming after me."

"How?"

"He's digging into my past."

"Will he find anything?"

"You dig into anybody's past," I said, "you find something."

"Not mine," she said.

"Really? How about those dead bodies in Reno?"

"Cleared of all charges."

"Great, terrific."

"I'm just playing with you, Cope. Making a funny."

"You're hilarious, Muse. Your comic timing. It's pro-like."

"Okay, cut to the chase then. What do you need from me?"

"You're friends with some of the local private eyes, right?"

"Right."

"Call around. See if you can find out who's on me."

"Okay, I'm on it."

"Muse?"

"What?"

"This isn't a priority. If the manpower isn't there, don't worry about it."

"It's there, Cope. Like I said, I'm on it."

"How do you think we did today?"

"It was a good day for the good guys," she said.

"Yeah."

"But probably not good enough."

"Cal and Jim?"

"I'm in the mood to gun down every man with those names."

"Get on it," I said and hung up.

In terms of interior decorating, Indian restaurants seem to break down into two categories-very dark and very bright. This one was bright and colorful in the pseudo style of a Hindu temple, albeit a really cheesy one. There were faux-mosaic and lit-up statues of Ganesh and other deities with which I am wholly unfamiliar. The waitresses were costumed in belly-revealing aqua; the outfits reminded me of what the evil sister wore on I Dream of Jeannie.

We all hold on to our stereotypes, but the whole scene looked as if a Bollywood musical number were about to break out. I try to have an appreciation for various foreign cultures, but no matter how hard I try, I detest the music they play in Indian restaurants. Right now it sounded like a sitar was torturing a cat.

The hostess frowned when I entered. "How many?" she asked.

"I'm not here to eat," I said.

She just waited.

"Is Raya Singh here?"

"Who?"

I repeated the name.

"I don't… oh, wait, she's the new girl." She folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.

"Is she here?" I said.

"Who wants to know?"

I did the eyebrow arch. I wasn't good with it. I was going for rakish but it always came out more like constipation. "The President of the United States."

"Huh?"

I handed her a business card. She read it and then surprised me by shouting out, "Raya! Raya Singh!"

Raya Singh stepped forward and I stepped back. She was younger than I'd expected, early twenties, and absolutely stunning. The first thing you noticed-couldn't help but notice in that aqua getup-was that Raya Singh had more curves than seemed anatomically possible. She stood still but it looked as though she were moving. Her hair was tousled and black and begged to be touched. Her skin was more gold than brown and she had almond eyes that a man could slip into and never find his way back out.

"Raya Singh?" I said.

Yes.

"My name is Paul Copeland. I'm the prosecutor for Essex County in New Jersey. Could we talk a moment?"

"Is this about the murder?"

"Yes."

"Then of course."

Her voice was polished with a hint of a New England-boarding school accent that shouted refinement over geographical locale. I was trying not to stare. She saw that and smiled a little. I don't want to sound like some kind of pervert because it wasn't like that. Female beauty gets to me. I don't think I'm alone in that. It gets to me like a work of art gets to me. It gets to me like a Rembrandt or Michelangelo.

It gets to me like night views of Paris or when the sun rises on the Grand Canyon or sets in the turquoise of an Arizona sky. My thoughts were not illicit. They were, I self-rationalized, rather artistic.

She led me outside onto the street, where it was quieter. She wrapped her arms around herself as though she were cold. The move, like pretty much every move she made, was nearly a double entendre. Probably couldn't help it. Everything about her made you think about moonlit skies and four-poster beds-and that, I guess, shoots down my "rather artistic" reasoning. I was tempted to offer her my coat or something, but it wasn't cold at all. Oh, and I wasn't wearing a coat.

"Do you know a man named Manolo Santiago?" I asked.

"He was murdered," she said.

Her voice had a strange lilt to it, as if she were reading for a part.