Her heart was pounding so hard that it was difficult to breathe.

Diane Stevens had read about carjackings, but they had always been remote, something that happened to other people. And the man had tried to kill her. Did carjackers do that?

Diane reached for her cell phone and dialed 911. It took almost two minutes before an operator answered.

"Nine one one. What is your emergency?" Even as Diane was explaining what had happened, she knew it was hopeless. The man would be long gone by now.

"I'll send an officer to the location. May I have your name, address, and phone number?" Diane gave them to her. Useless, she thought. She glanced back at the shattered window and shuddered. She desperately wanted to call Richard at work and tell him what had happened, but she knew he was working on an urgent project. If she called him and told him what had just occurred, he would get upset and rush to her side-and she did not want him to miss his deadline. She would tell him what happened when he got back to the apartment.

Suddenly a chilling thought occurred to her. Had the man been waiting for her, or was this just a coincidence? She remembered the conversation she had had with Richard when the trial began:

I don't think you should testify, Diane. It could be dangerous.

Don't worry, darling. Altieri will be convicted. They'll lock him away forever.

But he has friends andRichard, if I didn't do this, I couldn't live with myself.

What just happened had to be a coincidence, Diane decided. Altieri wouldn 't be crazy enough to do anything to me, especially now, during his trial.

Diane turned off the highway and drove west until she reached her apartment building on East Seventy-fifth Street. Before she pulled into the underground garage, she took a last careful look in the rearview mirror. Everything seemed normal.

THE APARTMENT WAS an airy, ground-floor duplex, with a spacious living room, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a large, marble fireplace. There were upholstered floral sofas, armchairs, a built-in bookcase, and a large television screen. The walls were rainbowed with colorful paintings. There was a Childe Hassam, a Jules Pascin, a Thomas Birch, a George Hitchcock, and, in one area, a group of Diane's paintings.

On the next floor were a master bedroom and bathroom, a second guest bedroom, and a sunny atelier, where Diane painted. Several of her paintings were hanging on the walls. On an easel in the center of the room was a half-finished portrait.

The first thing Diane did when she arrived home was to hurry into the atelier.

She removed the half-finished portrait on the easel and replaced it with a blank canvas. She began to sketch the face of the man who had tried to kill her, but her hands were trembling so hard that she had to stop.

DRIVING TO DIANE STEVEN'S apartment, Detective Earl Greenburg complained, "This is the part of the job I hate most." Robert Praegitzer said, "It's better that we tell them than have them hear about it on the evening news." He looked at Greenburg. "You going to tell her?" Earl Greenburg nodded unhappily. He found himself remembering the story of the detective who had gone to inform a Mrs. Adams, the wife of a patrolman, that her husband had been killed.

She's very sensitive, the chief had cautioned the detective. You'll have to break the news carefully.

Don't worry. I can handle it.

The detective had knocked on the door of the Adams home, and when it was opened by Adams's wife, the" detective had asked, Are you the widow Adams?

DIANE WAS STARTLED by the sound of the doorbell. She went to the intercom. "Who is it?" "Detective Earl Greenburg. I'd like to speak to you, Mrs. Stevens." It's about the carjacking, Diane thought. The police got here fast.

She pressed the buzzer and Greenburg entered the hallway and walked to her door.

"Hello."

"Mrs. Stevens?" "Yes. Thank you for coming so quickly. I started to draw a sketch of the man, but I…" She took a deep breath. "He was swarthy, with deep-set light brown eyes and a little mole on his cheek. His gun had a silencer on it, and-" Greenburg was looking at her in confusion. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what-" "The carjacker. I called 911 and-" She saw the expression on the detective's face. "This isn't about the carjacking, is it?" "No, ma'am, it's not." Greenburg paused a moment. "May I come in?

"Please."

Greenburg walked into the apartment.

She was looking at him, frowning. "What is it? Is something wrong?" The words would not seem to come. "Yes. I'm sorry. I-I'm afraid I have some bad news. It's about your husband." "What's happened?" Her voice was shaky.

"He's had an accident." Diane felt a sudden chill. "What kind of accident?" Greenburg took a deep breath. "He was killed last night, Mrs. Stevens. We found his body under a bridge along the East River this morning." Diane stared at him for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. "You have the wrong person, Lieutenant. My husband is at work, in his laboratory." This was going to be even more difficult than he had anticipated. "Mrs. Stevens, did your husband come home last night?" "No, but Richard frequently works all night. He's a scientist." She was becoming more and more agitated.

"Mrs. Stevens, were you aware that your husband was involved with the Mafia?" Diane blanched. "The Mafia? Are you insane?" "We found-" Diane was beginning to hyperventilate. "Let me see your identification." "Certainly." Detective Greenburg pulled out his ID card and showed it to her.

Diane glanced at it, handed it back, and then slapped Greenburg hard across his face. "Does the city pay you to go around trying to scare honest citizens? My husband is not dead!

He's at work." She was shouting.

Greenburg looked into her eyes and saw the shock and denial there. "Mrs.

Stevens, would you like me to send someone over to look after you and-?" "You're the one who needs someone to look after you. Now get out of here." "Mrs. Stevens-" "Now!" Greenburg took out a business card and put it on a table. "In case you need to talk to me, here's my number." As he walked out the door, Greenburg thought, Well, I handled that brilliantly.

I might as well have said, "Are you the widow Stevens?"

WHEN DETECTIVE EARL Greenburg left, Diane locked the front door and took a deep, shivering breath. The idiot! Coming to the wrong apartment and trying to scare me. I should report him. She looked at her watch. Richard will be coming home soon. It's time to start getting dinner ready. She was making paella, his favorite dish. She went into the kitchen and started to prepare it.

BECAUSE OF THE secrecy of Richard's work, Diane never disturbed him at the laboratory, and if he did not call her, she knew it was a signal that he was going to be late. At eight o'clock, the paella was ready. She tasted it and smiled, satisfied. It was made just the way Richard liked it. At ten o'clock, when he still had not arrived, Diane put the paella in the refrigerator and stuck a Post-it note on the refrigerator door: Darling, supper is in the fridge. Come and wake me up. Richard would be hungry when he came home.

Diane felt suddenly drained. She undressed, put on a nightgown, brushed her teeth, and got into bed.

In a few minutes, she fell sound asleep.