"And then?"

"Off we go into the wild blue yonder. You know what my cut is. We'll have enough in one year, plenty in two, super plenty in three. And you'll have your rock collection. We deserve it; we're nice people."

She laughed, lifted his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles. "Dangerous game," she observed.

He shrugged. "The first law of investing," he said. "The higher the return, the bigger the risk."

"Busy tomorrow?" she asked casually.

"I'm meeting Felicia for an early lunch. The afternoon's open."

"Sounds good to me," she said.

The Company kept a corporate suite at the Hotel Bedling-ton on Madison Avenue, and that's where Dora stayed. She called Mario to tell him about the sitting room with television set and fully equipped wet bar, the neat little pantry, and the two bedrooms, each with a king-size bed.

"Great for orgies," Dora told him.

Mario lapsed into trucker talk, and she giggled and hung up.

The hotel had a cocktail lounge off the lobby and, in the rear, a rather frowsty dining room that seemed to be patronized mostly by blue-haired women and epicene older men who carried handkerchiefs up their sleeve cuffs. The food was edible but tasteless; everything lacked seasoning. They needed a chef, Dora decided, who had Mario's faculty with herbs and spices.

But that's where she had lunch with Detective John Wenden, NYPD. They met in the lobby and examined each other's ID. Then he inspected her.

"You know," he said, "if you lost thirty pounds you'd be a very attractive woman."

"You know," she said, "if you were Robert Redford you'd be a very attractive man."

He laughed and held up his palms. "So-ree," he said. "It was a stupid thing to say, and I apologize. Okay?"

"Sure," she said. "Let's go eat."

"You got a swindle sheet?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll have a steak."

"Take my advice and use plenty of salt and pepper. The food is solid but has no flavor."

"Ketchup covers a multitude of sins," he said. The ancient maitre d' showed them to a table against the wall. Detective Wenden looked around at the oldsters working on their watercress sandwiches and chamomile tea.

"Think I could get a Geritol on the rocks?" he said.

"Whatever turns you on," Dora said.

But he ordered a light beer with his club steak. Dora also had a beer with her chefs salad.

"You married?" Wenden asked her.

"Yes," she said. "Happily. You?"

"Divorced," he said. "All New York cops are divorced- didn't you know? Occupational hazard. How much was the Starrett insurance?"

"Three million."

"That's sweet. Who gets it?"

"Thirds; equal shares to his wife, son, and daughter. Hey, I'm supposed to be asking the questions. That's why I'm buying you a steak-to pick your brain."

"Not much to pick." He paused while the creaking waiter served their beers Then: "You read the clips?"

She nodded. "A lot of nothing."

"That's all we've got-nothing."

His steak was served. He cut off a corner and tasted it cautiously. "You're right," he said. "Cardboard." He sprinkled the meat heavily with salt and pepper as Dora dug into her salad.

"You can talk with your mouth full, you know," she said. "I won't be offended."

"Okay," he said equably, "let me give you a quick recap.

"The victim is Lewis Starrett, seventy, white male, retired president of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. But he's still chairman and principal stockholder. Shows up every working day for a few hours at their flagship store on Park Avenue. Lives in an eighteen-room duplex on Fifth Avenue with his wife, daughter, son and son's wife. Also two live-in servants, a butler and a cook-housekeeper, a married couple. The deceased was supposed to be a nasty, opinionated old bastard but everyone agrees he was fearless. His first mistake; it doesn't pay to be fearless in this city.

"Every evening at nine o'clock, Lewis Starrett takes a stroll. His second mistake; you don't walk at night in this city unless you have to. He goes down Fifth to Fifty-ninth Street, east on Fifty-ninth to Lexington Avenue where he stops at a cigar store and buys the one daily cigar his doctor allows.

"Then he continues north on Lex to Eighty-third Street, smoking his cigar. West on Eighty-third Street to his apartment house on Fifth. They say you could set your watch by him. His third mistake; he never varied his route or time.

"On the fatal night, as the tabloids like to say, he starts his walk at the usual time, buys his cigar at the Lexington Avenue shop, lights up and starts home. But he never makes it. His body is found facedown on the sidewalk between Lex and Park. He's been stabbed once, practically between the shoulder blades. Instant blotto. No witnesses. And that's it."

Detective Wenden's timing was perfect; he finished his story at the same time he finished his lunch. He started to light a cigarette, but the maitre d' came hobbling over to tell him the whole dining room was a no-smoking area.

"Unless you want dessert and coffee," Dora said, "let's go into the cocktail lounge and have another beer. We can smoke in there."

"You got a deal," he said.

They were the only customers in the bar. They sat on uncomfortable black vinyl chairs at a black Formica table, sipped their beers, smoked their cigarettes. "Was he robbed?" Dora asked.

Wenden looked at her curiously. "Do you always go to this much trouble to check out an insurance claim?"

"Not usually," she admitted. "But this time we've got three million reasons. The Company wouldn't like it if someone profits illegally from Starrett's murder."

"You mean if one of the beneficiaries offed him?"

"That's what I mean." She repeated: "Was he robbed?"

"Negative," Wenden said. "He had all his credit cards and a wallet with about four hundred in cash. Also, he was wearing a gold Starrett watch worth fifteen grand and a man's Starrett diamond ring worth another thirty Gs."

"But you figure it was a bungled robbery?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe a coked-up panhandler asks for a buck. Starrett stiffs him, maybe curses him, and turns away. His family and friends say he was capable of doing that. Then the panhandler gets sore, pulls out a blade, lets him have it and takes off."

"Without pausing to lift his wallet or watch?"

"There were apparently no witnesses to the stabbing, but maybe the killer didn't want to push his luck by staying at the scene for even another minute. Someone might have come along."

"I don't know," Dora said doubtfully. "Seems to me there are a lot of maybes in your scenario."

The detective stirred restlessly. "Have you investigated many homicides?"

"A few."

"Then you know that even when they're solved there are always a lot of loose ends. I've never worked a case that was absolutely complete with everything explained and accounted for."

"Another beer?" she asked.

"Why not?" he said. "I've got nothing to do this afternoon but crack four other killings."

"That much on your plate?"

"It never ends," he said wearily. "There's a lot of dying going around these days."

Dora went to the bar and brought back two more cold bottles.

"Why do I get the feeling," she said, "that you don't totally believe your own story of the way it happened."

"It's the official line," he said.

"Screw the official line," she said angrily. "This is just between you and me, and I'm not about to run off at the mouth to the tabloids. What do you think?"

He sighed. "A couple of things bother me. You ever investigate a stabbing?"

"No."

"A professional knifer holds the blade like a door key, knuckles down. He uses an underhanded jab, comes in low, goes up high, usually around the belly or kidneys. It's soft there; no bones to snap the steel. The blow that killed Starrett started high and came down low into his back. An amateur did that, holding the knife handle in his fist, knuckles up. And it was amateur's luck that the blade didn't break on the spine or ribs. It sliced an artery and punctured the heart-more luck."