Pauline, having sat through enough of this bad soap opera, rose to leave. "Dinner was delicious," she said, smiling at Mack. "So was everything else."

"You were the best part of it by far, Paulie girl," said Mack, standing and giving her a long hug. "Let me walk you to your car."

"You don't have to leave," I said.

"Oh, but I do," said Pauline.

Then she and Mack took off, arm in arm, almost as if Dana and I weren't there.

"Let me walk with you, Pauline," I said. "Please. I need to talk to you."

"No," said Pauline, without turning to face me. "You stay and talk to your girlfriend. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on."

"I HOPE I DIDN'T INTERRUPT ANYTHING," Dana said. Her mouth was in a pout, but her eyes were smiling slyly.

"Yeah, right. What are you doing here, Dana?"

"Well, you can't expect a girl to give up without a fight," she said with one of her more charming, self-effacing smiles.

"You haven't seen or spoken to me in two months. It was your idea, remember?"

"I know that, Jack. I was in Paris. And Florence. Barcelona. I needed some time to think."

"So, Dana, what did you figure out in Europe? That you don't like yourself as much as you thought you did?"

"You've put me in an impossible position, Jack. You, or my father."

"A no-brainer, obviously. Daddy treated you to Europe, right?"

"Sometimes you don't know what you're talking about, Jack. My father is a wonderful man in many ways. He's great to my mom. He's blindly supported me in anything I've ever tried to do. Plus he's my goddamned dad. What do you want from me?" Her filial loyalty actually made me miss my own father.

"So, what brings you here tonight?"

"You," said Dana, staring at me intently. "I missed you even more than I thought I would. You are special, Jack."

When she touched my arm, I almost jumped.

"God, you hate me, don't you?" Tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, Jack. Don't you have anything to say to me?"

"I guess you've heard about the inquiry," I said.

Her head jerked back, the blond hair flying.

"I can't believe anyone really thinks my family had anything to do with Peter's death. Do you, Jack? What makes you even think Peter was murdered?"

"His body was covered with bruises, Dana. He was beaten on your beach. I wish you'd seen him."

"A lot of people think the storm could have done that."

I still couldn't quite believe Dana had gone completely over to the other side. Still, I knew it would be insane to share any of the hard work Pauline and I had done over the past two months.

"Dana, you weren't around when I really needed you, and I did need you," I told her.

Tears were still running down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Jack. What do I have to do to prove it to you?"

"You said some things before you left. Then you never called or wrote. Not even a postcard. Now you just show up here?"

She wiped her face. "Jack, let's go someplace. We could get a room. At the Memory. Please, I need to talk to you."

She reached out and put her arms around me. It felt way beyond wrong. I pulled away.

"I'm not going to the Memory, Dana. I think you should leave."

Dana folded her arms and stared at me angrily. The transformation was quite amazing.

"So who is she, Jack? The bitch who was here before?"

"A very good friend. She's helping me with the case. That reminds me, how's Volpi?"

Dana flinched, then jumped up out of her chair. She wasn't sniffling anymore. Now she was just pissed-off. Daddy's little girl was a lot like Daddy.

Once Dana was gone, I went inside the house, passed a sullen Mack watching the Yankees-Red Sox game, and tried to reach Pauline on her cell phone.

Either she'd turned it off or she wouldn't take my call.

I TOOK A GUINNESS out to the front porch and watched the late-departing weekenders head back to the city. Soon the Hamptons would be safe again for dreamy-eyed townies. In the meantime, I sat on the cool flagstone and rewound the evening. What a frigging disaster. I even began to wonder if Dana had known Pauline was there. I wouldn't put it past her.

It was getting late, and watching the passing SUVs was like counting sheep. I was fading a little when a police car screeched around the corner against the westbound traffic.

To my surprise, it turned into our driveway and skidded to a stop. Frank Volpi and a sergeant I didn't recognize hopped out. What the hell?

"Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?" asked Volpi as he reached the porch.

"Does it matter what I think, Frank?"

"Not really. Where have you been tonight?"

"Here. Why?"

"Someone just torched Sammy Giamalva's house to the ground," he said. "Professional. We're pretty sure with him in it."

I felt as if I'd been hit with the kitchen skillet. I thought of the photographs of Sammy in his kitchen – the ones that were dropped off at the Memory. Sammy, with a cigarette in his mouth and a cup of coffee in his hand. It showed a live-wire twenty-three-year-old getting stoked to do something he loved. A portrait of the stylist as a young man.

Then I flashed on the tiny pairs of numbers scribbled in pencil under each photo.

I suddenly realized they were odds, and that Sammy's (6-5) were the shortest.

Volpi was still in my face.

"Is there anyone who can confirm you've been here for the last couple of hours?"

"What is it, Frank, you really think I burned down Sammy's house? With my family gone, I'm turning on my friends?" As mad as I was, it was nothing compared to my panic about the danger I'd put my friends in.

"Mind if Officer Jordan and I have a look around?" Volpi asked.

"Actually, I do," I said, but Jordan was already heading for the garage.

"Hey!" I called. "You can't go in there."

I followed and stood beside him as he pulled up the door and swept his flashlight over the cluttered space. The beam moved slowly over the deep blue sheen of Peter's motorcycle.

"That's one pretty scooter," he said with a smirk. "Almost twenty grand, isn't it?"

"What you're doing here is illegal," I said. "C'mon, huh? Get out of the garage."

He bent to open the immaculate little BMW toolbox. What the hell was he looking for?

I stepped forward and grabbed his arm. "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave right now. Get away from the bike."

Jordan came out of his crouch and jumped into my chest, knocking me back into Frank Volpi, who had followed us into the garage. Volpi immediately grabbed my arms. He let Jordan take it from there.

If the first punch didn't rebreak my almost-healed rib, the second definitely did.

"You're under arrest for interfering with a police investigation and assaulting a police officer," said Volpi. He grinned as he cuffed me and dragged me out to the car. He didn't bother to read me my rights, and I got the message: I didn't have any.