Her head was starting to ache again, a reminder of last night's scuffle. She should go home early, put up her feet, and OD on the opiate of the masses-TV. But she'd accumulated too much paperwork.

Back at her desk, she shuffled through her in-box. There were dictations to sign, reports from ballistics, lab slips, pathology journals. She had just emptied her box when the mailroom clerk came in, whistling, and dumped another stack onto her desk.

"Forget this," M. J. muttered. "I'm going home."

Then she saw the envelope on the stack. Dr. Novak was scrawled on top. No address, no stamp; someone must have dropped it off at the front desk.

She opened the envelope and read the note.

Nicos Biagi results just back, MIT lab. Identified as new generation long-acting narcotic, levo-N-eyclobutylmethyl-6, 10 beta-dihydroxy class. Not FDA approved for use in humans. MIT says research patent application made six months ago. Trade name: Zestron-L. Applicant: Cygnus Corporation.

Sorry I'm cutting out on you, but I don't need the headache. Good luck, Novak. You'll need it.

– Mike Dietz.

The Cygnus Corporation . She stared at the name, stunned by the revelation. Thanks, Dr. Dietz, you coward. You drop this can of worms on my desk, and then you turn tail and run.

She grabbed the phone and called the state lab once again.

"About that tox screen, on Xenia Vargas," she said to the technician. "There's a specific drug I want you to test for. It's called Zestron-L."

"You'll have to talk directly to the outside lab. They're handling it now."

"Okay, I'll call them. Where did you send it to?"

"Cygnus Laboratories, in Albion. Do you want the number?"

M. J. didn't answer. She kept staring at that note from Dietz, at the name: Cygnus. Pharmaceuticals. Diagnostic labs. How many tentacles did the corporation have?

"Dr. Novak?" asked the tech again. "Do you want the Cygnus phone number?"

"No," said M. J. softly, and hung up.

It took her a few minutes to dredge up the courage to make the next phone call. It had to be done; Adam Quantrell had to be confronted.

The phone rang once, twice. A male voice answered: "Quantrell residence. Thomas speaking."

"This is Dr. Novak."

"Ah, yes, Dr. Novak. I hope the new automobile is working out."

"It's fine. Is Mr. Quantrell in?"

"I'm afraid he just left for the evening. The mayor's benefit, you know. Shall I give him a message?"

And what message could she leave? she thought. That I know the truth? It's your company, your drug, that's killing people?

"Dr. Novak?" asked Thomas when she said nothing.

She folded Dietz's note and stuffed it in her purse. "No message, Thomas. Thanks," she said. "I'll catch him at the benefit."

Then she hung up and walked out of the office.

It took M. J. an hour and a half to drive home, change her clothes, and fight her way back through midtown traffic. By that time, a major jam had built up along Dorchester Avenue, leading to the Four Seasons Hotel. All the red lights gave her time to shake her hair loose, dab on lipstick, brush on mascara while looking in the visor mirror. Even with a ton of face powder the bruises were still obvious, but at least she'd found a silk scarf to wrap around her neck and conceal the stitches. It actually looked rather dashing, that slash of red and purple silk trailing across the black dress. Too bad the whole effect required high heels; before the night was over, her feet would be killing her.

The ballroom of the Four Seasons was packed. There were probably enough furs and jewels in the room to fund the city budget for a year. A buffet table held platters of shrimp and smoked salmon, pastries and caviar, all of it served on real china, of course. A balalaika troupe was playing Russian music-a tribute to Albion's equally depressed sister city on the Volga. M. J. handed her invitation to the official at the door and headed into the thick of things.

She was reminded at once of why she hated going to affairs like this, especially on her own. Bring an escort and you were an instant social circle; go alone and you're invisible. Sipping at the requisite glass of white wine, she wandered through the crowd and searched for a familiar face-any familiar face. Mostly she saw a lot of tuxedoes, a lot of mink, a lot of orthodontically perfect teeth bared in perfect smiles.

She heard her name called. Turning, she saw her ex-husband. "And I thought you weren't going to vote for us," he said as he approached.

"I didn't say I would. I just can't pass up a free invite."

"Hey, I want to get a photo taken. You and the mayor together." He glanced around and spotted Sampson off in a corner, surrounded by admirers. "There he is. Come on."

"I don't do photo ops."

"Just this time."

"I told you, I'm not here to endorse him. I'm here to partake of a few free drinks and-" She stopped, her gaze suddenly focusing across the room, on a man's fair hair. Adam Quantrell didn't see her; he was facing sideways, engaged in conversation with another man. Next to Adam stood Isabel, her equally blond hair done up in an elaborate weave of faux pearls. The perfect couple, she thought. A stunning pair in tuxedo andevening dress. The sort of couple you saw epitomized in Cosmo ads.

Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He glanced her way and froze when he saw her. To M. J.'s surprise, he abruptly broke off his conversation and began to move toward her, across the room. She caught a glimpse of Isabel's frown, of faces turning to look at Adam as his broad shoulders pushed past. And then all she could seem to focus on was him.

He was smiling at her, the relaxed greeting of an old friend. The bruise on his cheek was almost lost in the laugh lines around his eyes. "M. J.," he said, "I didn't know you were coming." He reached out to her, and her hand felt lost in the warmth of his grip.

"I didn't know I was coming," she said.

The sound of a throat being cleared caught her attention. She glanced sideways at Ed. "I guess I should introduce you two," she said. "Ed, this is Adam Quantrell. Adam, this is Ed Novak. Our acting DA."

"Novak?" said Adam as the two men automatically shook hands.

"I'm her ex-husband," said Ed, grinning. "We're still very close."

"Speak for yourself," said M. J.

"So you're both campaigning for Sampson?" asked Adam.

"Ed is," said M. J. "I'm not."

Ed laughed. "And I'm going to change her mind."

"I came for the free meal," said M. J. She took a sip of wine, then she looked directly at Adam, a cool, hard gaze that no one could mistake as flirtatious. "And to see you."

"Well," said Ed. "She always did favor the direct approach."

"I'd like to say I'm flattered," said Adam, frowning as he studied her face. "But I get the feeling this isn't a social chat we're about to have."

"It's not," said M. J. "It's about Nicos Biagi."

"I see." Suddenly he seemed stiff and guarded-as well he should be. "Then perhaps we should talk in private. If you'll excuse us, Mr. Novak." He placed a hand on M. J.'s shoulder.

"Adam!" called Isabel, moving swiftly toward them. "I want you to meet someone. Oh, hello, Dr. Novak! Have you recovered from last night?"

M. J. nodded. "A few sore muscles, that's all."

"You're amazingly resilient. I would have been terrified, having my life threatened that way."

"Oh, I was terrified all right," admitted M. J.

"And then to have your car stolen. How fortunate it was only a Subaru-"

"Will you excuse us?" said Adam, continuing to guide M. J. toward the exit. "I'll join you later, Isabel."