“That would be unwise, indeed. Where’s the breakfast in bed you promised me?”

“Celia, it’s…” he checked the bedside clock “…six oh five in the morning, and my housekeeper doesn’t arrive until eight. And I can’t even make a fist, let alone cook, in my present condition.”

“What you need is a hot bath,” she said, getting out of bed. A moment later, water could be heard running in the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, Celia sat in the big tub, holding a limp Stone in her arms. “There, there,” she said, stroking his hair. “This is wonderful,” he sighed.

“Of course it is. And when we’re done here, I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had in your life.”

“I think I’m going to have to take the day off,” Stone said.

She laughed. “I wish I could join you, but I have appointments today.”

“So you live in that building on Park? You’ve been very mysterious about it.”

“Not mysterious, just careful.”

“Why careful?”

“I’m afraid I have a crazy ex-boyfriend on my hands.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell. I lived with him in a big loft downtown for a couple of years. It was fine for a while, but then he got into drugs and started becoming violent.”

“He was violent with you? He is crazy.”

“You’d think my size would have intimidated him just a little, wouldn’t you? He was only about six feet, and I think that always annoyed him. I took it at first, and then I started hitting him back.”

“Didn’t that stop him?”

“No, he started using weapons-his belt, once a whip, if you can believe it.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“I picked up one of his small sculptures-he’s a sculptor-and coldcocked him with it. Then, while he was still unconscious, I packed up and got the hell out of there. A friend lent me the apartment on Park, but Devlin, the sculptor, is looking for me, and he’s furious, so mutual friends tell me.”

“What do you think will happen if he finds you?”

“I think he’ll kill me.” She paused. “If he can.”

“Then I think you ought to start taking this seriously,” Stone said.

“Oh, I am taking it seriously.”

“Have you applied for a protective court order?”

“If I did that, the court would bar him from coming within a hundred yards of me, or something, right?”

“More or less.”

“The problem is, he’d have to be told where I’m living, so he could stay a hundred yards away.”

“You have a point. So what do you intend to do?”

“I’m thinking of killing him,” she said.

Stone lay on the bed while Celia kneaded his body.

“So, what do you think of my idea of killing Devlin?” she asked.

“Morally repugnant.”

“Forget morality for a minute. How should I go about it?”

“You shouldn’t go about it, even forgetting morality.”

“If I have no morals, then why shouldn’t I?”

“How are your nerves?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Could you stand an investigation by a team of police detectives into every aspect of your private life, maybe lasting for years? Could you stand being portrayed in the newspapers as the likely suspect, even if it couldn’t be proven? Could you stand the loss of your business when your clients learned that you were a suspected murderer?”

“Who knows, it might even improve my business.”

“I don’t think you’d like your new customers.”

“Don’t you think I could plan the perfect crime?”

“Did you ever watch the old TV series Columbo, with Peter Falk?”

“Sure. I bet I saw all of them.”

“Well, every week, Columbo solved a murder that was supposed to be the perfect crime. The series was a weekly lesson in how many ways there are to screw up when you’re trying to commit the perfect crime. And that was before DNA and fiber analysis, and all that stuff.”

“What would be my chances of getting away with it?”

“Have you ever met any homicide detectives?”

“One or two, I guess, at parties.”

“They looked pretty ordinary, didn’t they?”

“Very ordinary.”

“Your usual homicide detective is a guy in a suit who looks like a businessman or a high school teacher or an insurance salesman. Of course, there are those who look like bums, but my point is, they share one thing in common.”

“What?”

“They’re smart. They get assigned to homicides because they’re the best detectives. They also have a lot of experience at solving murders. Sometimes they get it wrong, and sometimes they don’t solve it at all, but year in and year out the NYPD solves close to two-thirds of all homicides. Now, you may think that gives you a one-in-three shot at getting away with it, but it also gives you a two-out-of-three shot at getting caught.”

She slapped him on the ass. “Turn over.”

He turned over. “Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows-family member, lover, next-door neighbor. Most of the unsolved murders are committed by someone the victim doesn’t know-mugger, rapist, like that. If Devlin is murdered by someone who knows him, like, say, you, then your chances of getting caught go way up, just because you’re known to know him. In fact, because you lived together and were lovers and had a sometimes violent relationship, you would instantly be the chief suspect in the eyes of the police.”

“Okay, suppose I got caught and sent to trial. Wouldn’t I have a good chance of getting off when the jury learned that he had been violent toward me for a long time?”

“You really want to take a chance on the opinions of twelve ordinary citizens?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, let’s say you go down to Devlin’s studio, pick up another one of his small sculptures and coldcock him. One blow might not do the trick; you might have to hit him until his brains are on the floor, and in that case, you’d better show signs of his trying to kill you-bruises on your neck, maybe even his fingerprints on your throat, something like that. And even if he is smaller than you, you’d be taking a chance on whether you could win the fight.”

“Suppose I wait until he attacks me, then shoot him.”

“Again, you might lose; he might take the gun away from you and shoot you. Also, the cops are going to want to know where you got the gun, if you had a license for it and why you took it to his studio. You could go to prison for just possessing the gun.”

She massaged his scalp and his face. “You make it sound awfully difficult.”

“It’s not just difficult, it’s very nearly impossible to kill somebody you know and just walk away.” She began rubbing the back of his neck. “And if I thought you really had it in you to murder somebody, I don’t think I’d want your hands where they are right now; they’re too close to my throat.”

“Suppose I hire someone to kill him and I’m in, say, San Francisco on the day.”

“Your chances of getting away with the actual killing go way up, but now you’ve got another person in the picture who might be a very great liability. Do you know any contract killers?”

“No, but I bet I could find one.”

“Okay. You walk into a bar in a not-so-hot neighborhood, strike up a conversation with some guy who looks like he’d do anything for money, and you make the deal and give him half. He could just start drinking at another bar and keep your money; in fact, if he’s smart, that’s exactly what he’d do. But let’s say he goes through with the deal, commits a clean murder, leaves no evidence, collects the rest of his fee and goes away. All of this is unlikely, of course, because he’d probably make mistakes that would get him caught, and then, to get a light sentence, he gives you to the D.A. on a platter. The D.A. will find witnesses in the bar who saw the two of you together; you’re the kind of girl who’s not easily forgotten. Or suppose, a year or two down the line, your hit man gets arrested for some other crime, something petty, like burglary. He doesn’t want to do time, so he does a deal where he gets immunity for Devlin and you get the death penalty. In short, you can’t rely on a person who will kill for money.”