"There's enough glory to go around," Dora said. "What's your next move, John?"

"Go back to the office, alert the Feds, and start the wheels turning. But before they get their act together, maybe I'll look up Turner Pierce and have a cozy little chat."

"I think I'll come along," Terry said. "If we lean hard on him, he might rat on Ramon Schnabl. I want to see that bastardo in Leavenworth, playing Pick-Up-the-Soap in the shower."

"I know why Guthrie was capped," Wenden continued, "but I'd like to find out why Lewis Starrett and Sid Loftus were put down. It all connects somehow to the gold trading plot and laundering of drug money."

Dora made no response.

"Listen," Terrible Terry Ortiz said to her, "maybe I never see you again, which is a big sorrow for me. I just want you to know you are one lovely lady, and it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He leaned forward to kiss her hand. "And take care of mi amigo," he added, jerking a thumb toward Wenden. "He deserves a break."

Dora nodded, but said nothing as they climbed out of the Ford, got into John's clunker, and drove away. She maneuvered her car into the spot they had just vacated in the No Parking zone. Then she went into the Bedlington, told the night clerk what she had done, and asked if the doorman would take care of the Escort when he came on duty.

The clerk assured her that her car was okay right where it was and handed her two messages, both from Gregor Pinchik. Please call him as soon as possible, at any hour of the day or night. But it was then close to 2:30 in the morning, and all Dora wanted was to hit the sack and grab some Z's.

Upstairs, she made herself a warm milk. She sipped it slowly while she reflected on the night's events and how they might or might not affect the insurance claim she was supposed to be investigating. She felt like someone in search of honey who finds herself enveloped in a swarm of buzzing and ferocious bees. But she could not flee; that would be unprofessional.

She wondered if she stuck to this case, to all her assignments, because of the raw human emotions they revealed. Perhaps her own personal life was so staid and commonplace that she needed to share the excitement of other people's travails, just as poor Felicia Starrett needed a periodic fix. And maybe that, after all, was why the possibility of an affair with John Wenden had not been instantly and automatically rejected. She yearned for something grand in her life, something that might shake her up, even if it left her frustrated and tormented.

She felt a terrible temptation to dare.

Dora had intended to sleep late, but when the phone jangled her awake she glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was only 8:00 A.M.

"H'lo?" she said drowsily.

"Good morning, lady. Gregor Pinchik here. Listen, something came up I think you should know about. Can you come down here right away?"

She groaned. "In this weather?"

"What weather?" he said. "The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and all the avenues have been scraped."

"You can't come here, Greg?" she asked hopefully.

"Nope. There's something on the screen you've got to see."

"All right," she said. "Give me an hour."

She brushed her teeth, combed the snarls out of her hair, and pulled on sweater and tweed skirt. Shouldering her big bag, she rushed out. Remembering the parking problem on her previous visit to SoHo, she decided to leave the Escort wherever it was and take a cab downtown.

Pinchik had been right: It was a brilliant morning, crystal clear, and what snow remained was rapidly turning to slush as the sun warmed. Traffic was mercifully light, and she was seated in Pinchik's loft a little after nine o'clock. Greg provided coffee and buttered bagels, for which Dora was grateful.

"You eat and I'll talk," he said. "I got some interesting stuff. There are no secrets anymore. Privacy is obsolete- did you know that? Anyway, first of all, that lowlife you told me about, Sidney Loftus: He was involved in a lot of shady deals and used a half-dozen phony names."

"I know," Dora said. "The Company has him on Red Alert because he was running an insurance swindle. What I wanted to know was whether Loftus knew Turner and Helene Pierce in Kansas City."

"Sure he did," Pinchik said. "As a matter of fact, he steered a few clients to Pierce for his computer consulting service-for a commission, of course. One of the clients he landed for Pierce was a guy who owned a string of bars, fast-food joints, and hot-pillow motels. Now get this! It later turned out this same guy was dealing dope. After he was indicted, the KC papers called him a kingpin in the Midwest drug trade. That's the kind of riffraff Loftus and the Pierces were associating with. Nice people, huh, lady?"

"Not exactly pillars of society," she agreed. "Did you get any reports that Loftus and the Pierces were using drugs themselves?"

He shook his head. "I got nothing on that, but the stuff was easily available to them if they wanted it. Now about Helene Pierce and her history before she showed up as a hooker. She came from a little farm town in Kansas and moved to the big city after high school, hoping to become a rich and famous movie star. She had the looks, I guess, but not the talent. She did some modeling for catalogues and such, and then she drifted into the party circuit, and before long she had her own plush apartment and was on call."

Dora sighed. "Hardly a unique story."

Pinchik stared at her. "I saved the best for last. Her real name is Helene Thomson."

Dora returned his stare. "I don't understand, Greg. Her brother's name is Turner Pierce. Different fathers? Adopted? Or what?"

"Lady," he said softly, "they're not brother and sister. They're husband and wife. Turner Pierce married Helene Thomson. They're still married, as far as I know."

Dora took a deep breath. "You're absolutely sure about this, Greg?"

"I told you I know a KC hacker who's cracked city hall. Take a look at this."

He switched on one of his computers, worked the keyboard, and brought up a document on the display panel. He gestured and Dora leaned forward to look. It was a reproduction of a marriage license issued four years previously to Helene Thomson and Turner Pierce.

Dora reached out to pat the computer. "Deus ex ma-china," she said.

"Nah," said Pinchik, "it's an Apple."

She cabbed home, thoughts awhirl, wondering where her primary duty lay. Warn Felicia? Inform Olivia? Tell Clayton? Or keep her mouth shut and let those loopy people solve their own problems or strangle on their craziness. One person, she decided, who had to know was Detective John Wenden. If he and Terry Ortiz were going to brace Turner Pierce, knowing of his "secret" marriage to Helene might be of use.

Her taxi was heading north on Park Avenue, had crossed 34th Street, when it suddenly slowed. Dora craned to look ahead and saw a tangle of parked police cars, fire engines, and ambulances spilling out of a side street. A uniformed officer was directing single-lane traffic around the jam of official vehicles.

"Something happened," her cabbie said. "Cop cars and fire engines. Maybe it was a bombing. We haven't had one of those for a couple of days."

"That's nice," Dora said.

The moment she was back in her hotel suite she phoned Wenden. He wasn't in, so she left a message asking him to call her as soon as possible; it was extremely important.

Then, faced with the task of entering Gregor Pinchik's revelations in her notebook, she said aloud, "The hell with it," kicked off her shoes and got into bed, fully clothed, for a pre-noon nap. She had never done that before, and it was a treat.

But a short one. For the second time that day she was awakened from a sweet sleep by the shrilling phone.