Today's menu was French toast, courtesy of Steve the bartender. He had a tight, hard look that Tess despised. Small men who spent so much time developing their muscles tended to neglect other vital parts. Then again, she hadn't liked any of her aunt's boyfriends since Thaddeus Freudenberg had left to attend the FBI academy down at Quantico. That had been in January-two months by the regular calendar, four boyfriends ago on the Kitty calendar.

"So, did Tommy provide any more details about what happened last night?" Kitty asked, as Tess helped herself to coffee. "And how's Spike doing?"

"Not so good. He lost consciousness while we were there. Someone-several someones-really worked him over. Probably got all of thirty dollars for their trouble."

Steve, uninterested in such mundane family matters as the robbery and near-death of a relative, yanked the conversation back to a subject he could dominate.

"So, did you get your dog from one of the local rescue groups?" he asked, serving Tess two slices of French toast, then sprinkling powdered sugar on top. Tess would have preferred something a little less sticky on a Tuesday morning, a bagel or a bowl of cereal, but she wasn't about to complain.

"I got her from my Uncle Spike."

"Well, he must've just got her, if she didn't know how to do steps. Those raw patches on her butt, that's kennel burn."

Esskay whimpered, as if aware of being the center of a less-than-flattering discussion. Kitty broke off a piece of toast and offered it to the dog, who wolfed it down with amazing speed.

"You should call one of those rescue groups, get the drill," Steve continued. "There are all sorts of things you need to know."

"Like what?" Kitty wouldn't be able to put up with this one for long, Tess decided, no matter what talents he possessed in the kitchen and boudoir. She liked quiet breakfasts.

"Diet. Exercise," he said vaguely, waving his fork in the air. Something in the gesture told Tess he had exhausted his little storehouse of greyhound facts.

As Steve held his fork aloft, a chunk of French toast still on its tines, Esskay leaped up and snatched the syrupy bite. The dog's eyes were bright for the first time and she no longer hung her head in that "don't-hurt-me" droop. Esskay looked ready for a fight to the death over the rest of the French toast, and Tess thought she had a chance of taking Steve. Esskay was hungrier.

"I've got an idea," she said, cutting the rest of her toast into small pieces. "Kitty, come out into the hall for a second."

At the foot of the stairs, Tess handed Kitty the plate and sent her halfway up the first flight. She then positioned herself behind the dog, arms braced on the dog's hind legs.

"Hold out one of the toast chunks," she told her aunt. Kitty proffered one of the smaller pieces between forefinger and thumb, as Tess moved the dog's legs up the steps. Foreleg, foreleg, hind leg, hind leg. Right, left, right, left. She could feel the tension in the poor beast as she craned her neck forward, trying to get closer to the morsel of French toast only inches from her mouth.

"Back up a few steps." Kitty retreated. Foreleg, foreleg, hind leg, hind leg. Again, the dog was almost in reach of the toast.

"Okay, let her have that bite, then go up to the landing and hold out one of the larger pieces."

The small taste, drenched with syrup and powdered sugar, almost drove the dog wild. Whimpering now, Esskay strained toward Kitty, out of reach on the landing. Tess crouched behind the dog, feeling like a mother who was about to let go of her kid's two-wheeler. A slight nudge and Esskay surged forward, taking the rest of the steps in one bound. Kitty fed her another French toast chunk, then pranced up four more steps. The dog followed on her own, Tess crawling behind her. Within seconds, they were at the top of the stairs outside Tess's apartment and the plate looked dishwasher clean.

Steve, who had watched this impromptu lesson from the bottom of the stairs, was not impressed.

"You better call that greyhound rescue group," he yelled upstairs. "I doubt French toast is going to agree with her stomach. You'll be lucky if she doesn't have diarrhea all over your apartment."

Kitty scratched the dog behind the ears. The dog looked up lovingly. It was more than toast. As Crow had once told Tess, falling in love with Kitty was a rite of passage for anyone who spent time at the corner of Bond and Shakespeare streets. He should know: a clerk at Women and Children First, Crow had nursed his own impossible crush on Kitty before suddenly, unpredictably switching his affections to Tess five months ago.

"Even dogs," Tess marveled. "Is there anyone immune to your charms?"

"Thousands. I just don't waste time on those lost causes, the way most women do." Kitty called downstairs. "Steve, you can go ahead and wash up now. I'm going to change and get ready to open the store."

Steve turned back to the kitchen, whistling as if it were a privilege to clean up after the meal he had prepared. Kitty floated to the landing and slipped inside her second-floor bedroom suite. Tess had to hold onto Esskay's collar to keep the dog from trotting after her.

Familiar with athletes and their needs, Tess poured the dog a huge bowl of water, placing it on a copy of the Beacon-Light. She then found an old blanket and arranged it into a bed on the floor of her bedroom. Puzzled, Esskay stood over it, staring at the blue plaid wool as if waiting for it to do something. When Tess came out of the shower, the dog was still standing over the blanket, growling faintly in the back of her throat.

Once dressed and ready for work, Tess stood in the bedroom's doorway and looked at the dog awkwardly. What was expected in a person-pet relationship? She had never understood people who talked to animals and babied them, but it seemed odd to walk away from a warm-blooded creature without some acknowledgment. Besides, this dog meant something to Spike, so she had to treat her well. Esskay was not unlike Tommy-not exactly human, but a part of Spike's life, and therefore deserving of common courtesy.

"I'm going out tonight," Tess said at last, "so I won't be home until late. I'll tell Kitty to check on you."

Esskay looked up briefly, then went back to staring at the blanket. Great, Tess thought. I'm talking to a dog, and it's not even paying attention. And she ran down the stairs, late for work. That was the one drawback of the office being only ten minutes away. You couldn't make up lost time on the commute.

Tyner Gray's law office was in an old town house on Mount Vernon Square, a pretty neighborhood clustered at the feet of George Washington, who kept watch from the top of a modest monument. "But it's older than the one in DC," some local was always quick to point out. Tess didn't care much about the monument, but she liked the pretty park outside her office window, the strains of classical music that drifted over from Peabody Conservatory, and the good restaurants in the neighborhood. Last fall, fate and circumstances had brought her here, in what was to be a temporary job. Tess had ended up staying on, although Tyner reminded her every day that her goal should be to obtain a private investigator's license and open her own office.

As she came through the heavy front door at 9:15, she could hear the whine of the old-fashioned elevator only Tyner used. Tess darted up the broad marble steps between the first and second floors, then took the narrower staircase to the third floor, confident she could beat the wheezing lift. They had timed it once with Tyner's stopwatch, the one he used when putting novice rowers through drills. It took exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds for the elevator to make the trip from first to third. By the time Tyner arrived, she was at her desk in the front room, which she shared with Alison the receptionist, making notes on an interview she had conducted last week, some woman who hoped to sue her neighbor in a boundary dispute.