I could sense Timmy looking at me and raising his eyebrows questioningly, as if to say, "Now?"

The woman smiled tentatively. "Yes, I've been to Myrna's. But—you don't look much like a detective."

"My Robert Hall suit's at the cleaners. And I've never been big on the Raymond Chandler sort of private-eye high drag."

She thought about this. She looked as if she were trying to remember if her instructions covered this unusual set of circumstances. I guessed they hadn't and we'd thrown her off balance.

Finally she said, "All right. I can talk to you, but just for a minute. That's all. Chris isn't here." She fiddled with the chain, and the door opened.

We sat in a cheerful room lined with white wooden shelves holding clumps of old, handsomely bound books alternating with bright, graceful figurines and pottery from Central America. The wine-colored velvet chairs were deep and soft, and the stereo receiver was tuned to public radio, which had on Purcell's "Dido." The woman, thirtyish, and definitely from south of the border, wore olive slacks and a cowl-collared orange turtleneck with a red stone hanging from a silver chain. Her expression was one of vulnerable distraction—the look of a woman who had recently received a crank phone call and now the crank had arrived at her door. She told us her name was Margarita Mayes and that she was Chris Porterfield's "roommate."

"Do you know Billy, too?" I asked.

"I've met him," she said, then quickly added, "but I haven't seen him recently. Not since—oh, August, I think. I have no idea where you could find him."

I looked for evidence of a male presence in the house but saw none. Frank Zimka had told me Billy Blount had flown to another city, but I now knew Zimka had been less than forthcoming about one matter and could as easily have been untruthful about others.

I said, "Are Chris and Billy good friends? I've gotten the impression they're close."

She looked at me quizzically. "They're very close, yes. But how did you know about Chris? Their relationship is—special. They've never mixed with each other's friends, and they've sort of saved each other up as a kind of, oh—refuge." She tensed, regretting she'd used the word.

"A friend of Billy's saw them together once in Chris's VW," I said, "though the friend didn't know at the time it was Chris, And Chris's first name and number were written on Billy's phone book. That's what led me here."

"I know," she said, looking worried. "That's where the police got it."

"They've been here?"

"Last week. Chris wasn't here. I said she was on a business trip. We own Here 'n' There 'n' Everywhere Travel. I told them she was in Mexico setting up Christmas tours."

"They could check on that with Mexican immigration." She winced. "I'll try to find out if they have. Chris is with Billy, isn't she?"

She said nothing.

I said, "Are they in Albany?"

She sat motionless, barely breathing. The apprehension in her dark eyes made Timmy uncomfortable. He picked up a copy of Travel and Leisure from an end table, peered at the cover, then set it down again. Finally she said, "I think you'd better speak with Chris."

"I'd like to."

"But what's your interest in this? Your connection. You said you wanted to help Billy. Why? Chris will want to know."

"His parents hired me to locate him. But my interest goes beyond that. Billy has been charged with murder, and I think

he's probably innocent. Also, Billy is someone whose difficulties in life are ones for which I hold a special sympathy."

She looked at me, then at Timmy, then back at me. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but—are you gay?"

I glanced at Timmy and caught him looking at me sappily. I said, "Yes, Timmy and I are lovers." He started to move toward me, and I thought, Oh Christ, but he swung around and just shifted position in his chair.

Margarita Mayes caught this and smiled. Timmy said, "He's very straitlaced."

"Good," she said. "So am I. I think I'd better have Chris get in touch with you. She'll call you. Why don't you give me your number again."

I handed her my business card. "Please have her call as soon as she can. There's a certain urgency in all this, as you can imagine. Have Chris and Billy been friends for a long time?"

"Oh, yes. Ages."

"College?"

"No. I mean, they met around that time. But at another place."

"A mental institution?"

She blanched. Timmy stiffened and gave me an indignant look.

"You'd better talk to Chris," Margarita Mayes said. She stood up. "I don't know what she wants you to know and what she doesn't want you to know." She looked put out and resentful at having been left with a lot of useless, incomplete instructions. "I'll ask her to call you, and then you two can work it out. I don't even know if Chris would want me to be talking to you like this."

"If I could see her, it would be easier."

"She'll call you." She moved toward the open door. "Or I'll call you." She was panicking. I'd pushed too hard.

I said, "Impress on her the fact that if Billy is going to come through this, he'll need a skilled, full-time friend working on his behalf—to clear him, and to find out who the real killer is. The police are harried, overworked, underpaid, generally not too smart, and they can't be relied on to do that. I can be. But I'm going to need Billy's help, and first Chris's."

She nodded, played with the cowl on her pretty sweater.

"All right. Thank you. We'll be in touch soon." She walked quickly to the front door, and we followed.

"Sorry again about the rude phone call," I said. "It was just a dumb misunderstanding on my part."

"Oh, that's all right. I was mixed up, too. I'm half-afraid to pick up the phone these days. I've been getting crank calls since yesterday morning, so I've been uptight about the phone ringing."

"You have?"

"Someone calls and then just listens, doesn't say anything. I can hear the person breathing. But it'll stop soon, I'm sure. You'd better go now. Chris will be in touch."

I said, "Do you have a burglar alarm in this house?"

"Yes, as a matter fact we do. Chris set it off accidentally once, and it makes a horrible racket. Why do you ask that?"

"Well, it's just that—that's an MO burglars sometimes use. They'll call to see if you're home, and if you're not home, they may try to bust in and clean you out before you get back. No one's tried to break in recently, though, right?"

"No. But of course I've been home every night."

"Right. And you're sure the alarm is working?"

"Yes, that little red light by the door there goes on when it's activated. I set it every night."

"Good idea."

"I like your Ken Edwards Tonala," Timmy said. "I can see why you wouldn't want those stolen. There are some lovely things here."

"Yes," she said, "It's not the Ken Edwards stuff, though, it's Armando Galvan."

"Oh. Right. Did you bring them back from Mexico yourself?"

"Yes. We did. Good night now. Chris will be calling you soon, okay?"

The cold wind was rushing in the open door.

We drove down Lancaster, then swung right on Dove. "What was that 'mental institution' crap? I thought you'd lost her with that one."