“Yes, well, she seems to have accumulated a nice big box of rat poison. With an active ingredient of potassium cyanide.”

I n the bleak wasteland that was my love life prior to Peter, I’d Googled the various romantic interests I’d had as well as the blind dates people foisted on me, and I’d been amazed by the wealth of information I’d found. For example, a few keystrokes had informed me that the charming venture capitalist I’d met at the Harvard Club was an avid collector of Beanie Babies, bidding them up aggressively on eBay. This knowledge promptly dashed any hopes I might have had for our future together, but better my hopes were dashed before we’d even started dating than after accidentally stumbling upon his Beanie Baby collection while looking for the bathroom in his apartment.

The Internet proved an equally fertile hunting ground for matters less romantic in nature. We were up half the night running searches on the names and topics that Jane had detailed on the easel, including Naomi Gallagher and Annabel Gallagher. We also did some Googling of the victims for good measure. The Web yielded a stockpile of information that we used to shape our plan of attack: everyone-except for me, of course-was out the door by nine on Thursday morning, eager to pursue their designated leads.

The good news was that cyberspace easily yielded recent reports on Dahlia Crenshaw’s condition; the bad news was that while she hadn’t been run over by the E train, she’d struck her head when she hit the tracks and had no memory of who pushed her. I was glad that she hadn’t been seriously hurt, but it would have been nice if she’d been able to clear my name.

Naomi Gallagher turned out to be a relatively high-profile publishing executive-high-profile because she’d acquired and edited a bestseller about chemical and biological weapons of mass destruction. “Maybe she knows about more targeted destruction, too,” Hilary suggested.

We also discovered a picture of Naomi and her daughter at a function at Caldecott Academy, her daughter’s school, on the Caldecott Web site. “I know a woman on the faculty there,” said Jane. “I met her at a continuing education seminar. And teachers at private schools like that always know the dirt on the parents. Why don’t I look her up and see what I can find out?”

Annabel Gallagher had a substantial presence in cyberspace. “Figures,” I said, when I scanned the results Google delivered, unconsciously echoing Naomi’s reaction when she’d encountered her successor.

“What figures?” asked Emma.

“She was a model.”

“Vogue?” asked Luisa.

“Victoria’s Secret?” asked Hilary.

“No, she’s not tall enough for that sort of thing-she mostly did catalog work. But still, a model.” I wasn’t sure of the precise origins of the term “modelizer”-many credited Candace Bushnell and Sex and the City-but just because it was on TV didn’t mean it wasn’t true. In fact, a whole subculture existed in New York of men who were obsessed with dating models, regardless of whether they themselves were model material.

However, the model in question here had been busily remaking herself as a socialite since she married Gallagher two years ago. Most of the references we found were about Annabel chairing benefits or otherwise attending charity galas. One reference was especially interesting, a gossip column blurb noting Gallagher’s absence from an Annabel-organized function and speculating about “trouble in paradise.” Personally, I didn’t see how domestic arrangements with Gallagher could ever have been described as paradise.

“I’ll take Annabel,” said Emma with confidence. “I know the type, and I know where to find people who will talk about her.” Emma’s mother had been one of New York’s social leaders for decades, so it wasn’t surprising that she knew “the type,” although she herself shied away from the social limelight.

Luisa nominated herself to try and figure out what Dahlia had seen on the news. “There’s a video clips service that my law firm uses to track mentions of their clients on TV. It records all of the main broadcast and cable channels. I can scan the news programs and figure out what Dahlia wanted to tell you-maybe it was something relevant to the buyout.”

“That’s a lot of news,” I warned. “Local and national news on the major networks. And then all of the cable news channels.”

“What time did she leave her message?”

“Sevenish.”

“So, it was probably the six-thirty national news on one of the networks. I’ll start there, and if I don’t find anything, I’ll broaden the search.”

It sounded like a thankless task, but Luisa seemed willing to do it, and I didn’t have any better ideas.

Hilary, meanwhile, volunteered to use her journalist credentials and connections to investigate the investigators. “I can find out more about the case they’re building against Rachel and see if they have any other leads.”

“You just have a thing for police detectives,” Luisa said skeptically.

“Two birds. One stone. Need I say more?” asked Hilary.

There was a flurry of activity as they all prepared to leave, which made the loft seem extra quiet and empty once they’d actually left.

Emma had made sure that the kitchen was well-stocked with essentials. I helped myself to a can of Diet Coke and some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. Usually I ate breakfast at the office, under Jessica’s watchful gaze. She probably wouldn’t have approved of this morning’s menu, but that was the least of my worries.

I wandered around the apartment a couple of times and then stared out the window for a few minutes. I thought about getting back on Emma’s computer to try to do some more research, but I wasn’t sure what else to research. Nor did I have much of an appetite for Web surfing after an entire night spent online, searching every possible lead. Instead I turned on the television and flipped channels, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything that was on, and Emma didn’t even have TiVo.

Thinking about TiVo made me wistful for my own TiVo. I hoped it wasn’t being handled roughly in police custody. I missed the rest of my belongings, too, especially my BlackBerry. It was strange to go so long without checking messages; I’d recognized that I was sort of compulsive about checking in, but I hadn’t realized just how compulsive until I was no longer able to. I felt twitchy and anxious, and while I could chalk that up to being a fugitive from justice, the BlackBerry withdrawal wasn’t helping. It was hard to suppress the sense that the world was moving forward without me.

I’d checked the new e-mail account Peter had set up a couple of times during the night, but it had remained empty. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check again. It was the only thing I could check safely, and maybe checking it would stave off my withdrawal for a bit.

I sat myself behind Emma’s desk and logged in to the account. I’d gotten so used to being disappointed that I was already steeling myself for an empty inbox. But instead I was rewarded with a message from Man of the People.

I eagerly clicked it open, hoping he’d been a bit more explicit this time around.

But he hadn’t written anything at all-the e-mail was completely blank.

It was a good thing I was alone, because my yelp of frustration wasn’t very ladylike. I scrolled down in disbelief, and then closed the message and reopened it. But there was still nothing.

Who was this peculiar anonymous correspondent, and why was he bothering to correspond if he wasn’t even going to communicate? It was bad enough that it had taken him days to respond to my response to his initial e-mail, but to respond without actually responding just added insult to injury.

I was about to hit Reply and give him a fairly scathing piece of my mind when I noticed I had missed something.