"The mayor's people" was her mother's code for professional blacks. Tess usually corrected Judith's euphemistic racism, but enlightenment could wait. The Buick was pulling over, parking at curbside.

Tess shrank back behind the kitchen island, trying to find a place where she could watch the car through the kitchen window without its occupants seeing her. The front passenger door opened and, after a few seconds, a man came up the walk. A short, chunky man in a leather blazer, with a face that defied any specific description. It was a generic face, a clean-shaven oval beneath bushy brown hair, dark glasses hiding the eyes. A good face for a criminal, Tess thought, as the doorbell pealed.

"Mother-" her voice was urgent enough to stop Judith, who was bending over and putting her shoes back on.

"He's probably selling something," she assured Tess. "I'll send him on his way and we'll have our tea."

"Don't let him know I'm here."

Judith could be distressingly obstinate and slow at times, but she picked up on Tess's tone. "Is this something to do with your work?"

"Yes." There was no point in letting her parents know that the unsavory side of Spike's life was in the ascendance. "This man is very angry with me. Don't let him in. Whatever he says, don't let him in. I'm going to stand by the phone, ready to call 911 if I have to. But I won't unless I absolutely have to."

Her mother studied Tess. She was torn, Tess knew, between lecturing her daughter on her unorthodox life and enjoying this sense of mission between them. The bell rang again. She walked to the door with the brisk air known to quicken the pulses and words-per-minute of the clerk-typists in her division at the National Security Agency. Tess crouched down by the wall phone, eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Spike Orrick told me he was gonna leave something for me here," the man was telling Judith. "You know anything about that?"

"I think you must have the wrong house," she replied. Tess could tell she tried to shut the door on him as firmly as possible without slamming it, but her swing ended prematurely with a dull thud. The man must have stuck his shoe between the door and the frame.

"Maybe you better let me come in and look."

"I don't think so. In fact, I'm going to call the police if you don't leave Ten Hills right this minute." This time, Tess heard a sound she couldn't identify, followed by a quick exhalation and a muttered curse. The door slammed shut firmly and the deadbolt turned. As Judith marched back into the kitchen on her navy heels, Tess lunged for the kitchen door and locked it, just in case the men tried to come through that way. Outside, the Buick roared away from the curb. It sounded asthmatic, the way a car does when it's going to need a new muffler soon. Good, she'd be able to hear it coming.

"How did you get him to leave?" Tess asked.

"Stepped on his foot with my high heel." Judith laughed, pleased with herself. "He's not the first man to stick his foot in the door. But what does this have to do with your job? That man was asking for something from Spike. Is that why you didn't want to call the police, because Spike is mixed up in this?"

The teapot sang, momentarily sparing Tess a reply. She poured the water over the tea bags-good old Lipton's, nothing flavored or new-fangled for Judith-wondering why the men would come here. Spike would never implicate her parents in any part of his gambling operation, given her father's job as a city liquor inspector. Yet this was the second time they had been here in four days.

"They tried to get into Dorothy's house on Saturday, but she didn't even take the chain off," her mother said. "They told her they were looking for a dog. You know what I think? I saw something on television about burglars who tell some story in order to get into your house, to see what you have worth stealing. Then they back up a truck as soon as you go to work and cart everything away."

Tess almost scalded herself with water as she swung around, still holding onto the teapot.

"They were looking for a dog?"

"That was the story they used Saturday, down at Dorothy's."

"Did they say what kind of dog?"

"They didn't have time to say much. Dorothy blew her police whistle in his face and slammed the door on him."

The greyhound-of course, they wanted the greyhound. But why? Why would anyone want that dog under any circumstances?

"Esskay," she said.

"You want a piece of sausage? Oh, honey, you know your father and I don't eat those fatty foods any more. But let me see what I have for a snack."

"I'm sorry," Tess said, putting her untouched mug of tea on the kitchen table. "I have to go."

"Why?" Her mother called after her. "What's going on?"

She searched for the only reason her mother would accept. "I just remembered, I left my iron on."

There was no brown-over-salmon car wheezing down Bond Street, or waiting in the alley outside her apartment. Inside, Esskay was in bed with Crow, napping. Tess stood over them, watching them, feeling an odd mix of tenderness and responsibility toward both. I didn't ask for this, she thought. I can't handle this.

Crow's breathing was slow and measured. The dog's inhalations were quick and sharp, her lip curling back over her teeth, her legs moving as if she were chasing rabbits in her dreams. Crow wrapped himself around the twitching dog, nurturing even in his sleep. Tess took off her clothes and took her place behind Crow, joining in their conga line. She began to fall asleep, only to jerk awake at the sound of a car moving slowly through the alley. She got up, looked out the window, snorted down a quick whiff of bourbon. Back in bed, she had barely surrendered to the not unpleasant mix of hot flesh and warm fur when the phone rang, waking everyone entwined there.

"Hello," Crow whispered dreamily to her, as she reached over him to pick up the phone. He squeezed her thigh in welcome.

"Hello?" Jack Sterling's voice came over the line, tentative and shy.

"Yeah," she said to both men, a little groggy from being right on the edge of sleep.

"I'm sorry to call you at home, but I admit I couldn't wait. Did you talk to Lea Wynkowski?" Crow rolled toward her and pushed his leg between hers, as if trying to warm himself.

"Yes, I did talk to her," Tess said, feeling a rush of shame as she recalled her heartless trick.

"Does she blame the paper? Does she think we killed her husband?"

What was it about Jack Sterling that made her want to say whatever he longed to hear? "Right now, the only person she really seems to blame is Wink."

"Did he call her before he…did what he did?"

She was fully awake now. "No, the last time she talked to him was Friday. And he was in a pretty good mood then. Said he thought the deal would still go through." She glanced at Crow, who was looking at her expectantly, the way Esskay sometimes stared at the kitchen table, even when there was no food on it. "She didn't even know about the story until Sunday night."

"I guess that's something. Although even if she absolves us, I'm not sure I can. Did she say anything else? Anything at all? Don't spare my feelings, Tess."

"Nothing, really. Did I do okay? Or does this mean I have to go back to sitting in that office six hours a day?"

Sterling laughed. "You do whatever you like. I told Colleen I've given you a special assignment." His voice changed, warming a shade. "Tess?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You sounded hoarse when I called, as if you were sleeping. Are you in bed?"

"Uh-huh."

He hesitated. "Are you alone?"

Again, she told him what she assumed he wanted to hear, what she wanted him to want to hear. "Uh-huh."

"Go back to sleep, Nancy Drew." He hung up the phone, as did Tess. But she did not go back to sleep. It was only 7 o'clock. She rolled into Crow, and they made love like an old married couple, quickly and silently, with small, efficient movements that barely rocked the bed. Esskay slept on, undisturbed by their rhythms, still chasing rabbits.