“I’m fine,” I said. “But what are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied. He pointed over his shoulder. “My condo’s right over there.” We were outside a generic but pleasant-looking brick building. “But what brings you to my neighborhood?”

“A board meeting for Grenthaler Media.” It occurred to me that running into Jonathan just now was fortuitous. I could bounce my suspicions about Barbara Barnett off him before potentially embarrassing myself with the police.

“Oh, that’s right. Their headquarters are around the corner. Listen, do you need a ride somewhere? I was about to head to the Square. There are a couple of things I need to do in my office. My car’s right over there. I was loading it up when I saw you.”

I followed his outstretched arm with my gaze. His Saab was parked across the street.

I hesitated. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’m actually going in the opposite direction. I’m meeting some friends at Copley Place. But it would be great if you could drop me somewhere where I’m more likely to find a cab.”

“No problem. I’d be happy even to drive you over to Copley, if you’d like. It won’t take long.” He took my elbow and began guiding me toward the car.

“No, that’s all right. But I am glad I ran into you. I’d love to get your opinion on something.”

“Sure. Anything.” He looked down at me and grinned, and my heart did the proverbial flip accompanied by the familiar tingle. No man who wasn’t a movie star or a male model had the right to look this good, especially when I looked as bad as I probably did. “Here, why don’t you get in out of the cold while I finish putting my gear in the trunk.” He unlocked the passenger-side door for me and swung it open. I slid in and he shut it after me.

I watched while he went around the back of the car and opened the trunk. Then I watched through the driver’s-side window as he came around the other side. His crimson-and-white-striped scarf had come loose, and he knotted it around his neck firmly before stooping to pick up a large duffel bag that he’d left on the curb. The duffel was clearly an antique-it bore the logo of the Harvard Men’s Ice Hockey Team, and was probably left over from when Jonathan played Varsity and used the oversize bag to carry his pads, stick, helmet and skates. It looked unwieldy, too; he hefted it awkwardly.

It wasn’t even eleven in the morning yet, but it had already been a long day. And I’d recently had a faceful of dirty snow, so maybe my vision was clouded.

But I could have sworn that I saw a woman’s foot poking out from one end of the duffel.

M y fairy godmother, who had been egregiously negligent of late, made a cameo appearance in the guise of the empty cab that was pulling up the street. I was out of Jonathan’s car like a shot, yelling a hasty goodbye and promising to talk to him later while throwing myself in front of the taxi. It skidded to a stop, and I raced around to the side, opening the door and slamming it shut behind me. “Copley Place,” I said, “and step on it.” The driver obliged, and I turned to look out the back window. Jonathan was standing by his car, clearly stunned. I gave him a fake smile and a wave and reached over to lock the doors on either side of me.

My head was spinning. I felt like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, minus the satanic possession and spewing green slime parts. Jonathan Beasley-Love Story guy himself-was a serial killer?

My head slowed its spinning long enough to begin ticking off pieces of evidence. First, nobody that good-looking could be normal. Second, he had one of those stupid scarves that the police had linked with the crimes. Third, now that I thought about it, he did seem to have a complex of some sort when it came to Boston’s underclass. I remembered the off-putting way he’d spoken of how his ex-wife had become caught up in their problems, and the resentment that seemed to tinge his words. Maybe that was what motivated him?

But the clincher pretty much made all these pieces of evidence superfluous-because the clincher was that Jonathan Beasley was carrying bodies around in duffel bags and loading them into trunks.

And, even worse, he’d quasikissed me.

Blechh.

And not just once.

Double blechh.

I found a piece of Kleenex in my coat pocket and used it to scrub at my cheeks and lips until the tissue disintegrated into pieces of lint that I had to pick out of my mouth. We were crossing the river on the Mass. Ave. Bridge by then, and the driver was eyeing me in the rearview mirror with a concerned expression.

“Everything okay back there?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said with dignity, forming the words as clearly as I could around a mouth full of tissue fragments. I seemed to be making quite an impression on the Boston area’s fleet of taxi drivers.

Copley Place had sprouted several new appendages since I was last there, including a couple of new hotels, a new office building that bore more than a passing resemblance to R2-D2, and a maze of shopping arcades. I’d passed the same Ann Taylor three times before I realized that I was repeatedly missing the turnoff that would take me to the pedestrian walkway to Copley Place proper and the restaurant we’d designated as our meeting place.

I scurried along the passageway, ignoring the stores I passed and zigzagging through the crowds of Saturday shoppers in search of post-holiday bargains. By the time I’d reached my destination I felt as if I’d run a marathon.

My friends were seated calmly around a table on the floor of the mall outside the restaurant, chatting and sipping coffee and orange juice. “Hil, do you have Detective O’Connell’s card?”

She smiled. “Well, good morning to you, too. There’s something white on your lip.”

I tried not to snarl. “Do you have it?” I repeated.

“Do you want me to help you get it off?”

“Get what off?”

“The white thing.”

“No, I want to know if you have O’Connell’s card.”

“Of course I do.”

I knew that I could count on Hilary for something. “Give it to me. Now.”

“Will you give it back?” she started to ask, but then she got a better look at the expression on my face and handed the card over without saying anything else.

I found a relatively quiet corner and dialed O’Connell’s number, swiping at the bits and pieces of tissue that were stuck to my lips. I may have been ambivalent about calling him to report my suspicions regarding Barbara Barnett, but I was pretty comfortable calling to tell him that I knew who his serial killer was. I decided in advance that I would leave out the part about the serial killer having kissed me.

My fairy godmother had returned to the cave where she seemed to be hiding out of late. It took three tries for my call to go through, and when it finally did O’Connell wasn’t there and whoever answered his phone refused to page him, which seemed irresponsible, at best. I left a message, stressing repeatedly the urgency of the matter.

That done, I returned to my friends’ table and handed the card back to Hilary. Then I deposited my frazzled self in the empty chair, gripped the edge of the table with my hands, and began beating my head against it at a slow but steady pace.

“Something wrong, Rachel?” asked Luisa dryly.

“Everything’s wrong,” I answered plaintively.

“Stop that,” said Emma, grabbing hold of the knot of hair at the back of my head. “You’ll end up doing serious damage.”

“Do you think anyone will be able to tell the difference?” asked Hilary.

“Rachel, why don’t you sit up straight and tell us what’s going on.” Jane had her matronly voice of reason on, the one that she usually reserved for recalcitrant students.