"Help yourself."

"I'm trying to stop smoking so I don't buy any. I'm still smoking but I'm saving a lot of money. Your name is Dora Conti?"

"That's right."

"Italian?"

"My husband is."

"How long have you been married?"

"Six years."

"Children?"

"No."

"That's smart," Felicia said. "Who the hell wants to bring kids into this rotten world. This is about the insurance?"

"Just a few questions," Dora said. "Your mother has already told me most of what I wanted to know. She said you were in the apartment having cocktails the evening your father was killed. But you left early."

"That's right. I had a dinner-date downtown. A new restaurant on Spring Street. It turned out to be a bummer. I told the cops all this. I'm sure they checked it out."

"I'm sure they did," Dora said. "Miss Starrett, do you know of any enemies your father had? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?"

Felicia had been smoking with short, rapid puffs. Now tears came to her eyes, and she stubbed out the cigarette.

"Damn!" she said. "I thought I was finished with the weeping and wailing."

"I'm sorry I upset you."

"Not your fault. But every time I think of him lying there on the sidewalk, all alone, it gets to me. My father was a sonofabitch but I loved him. Can you understand that?"

"Yes."

"And no matter what a stinker he was, no one should die like that. It's just not right."

"No," Dora said, "it isn't."

"Sure, I guess he had enemies. You can't be a world-class bastard all your life without getting people sore at you. But no, I don't know of anyone who hated him enough to murder him."

"I met Father Callaway when I questioned your mother. He seems to agree with the police theory that your father was killed by a stranger."

"Father Callaway!" Felicia cried. "He's as much a Father as I am an astronaut. Don't pay any attention to what he says or thinks. The man's a phony."

"Oh?" Dora said. "How do you mean?"

"He's got this rinky-dink church in an empty store, and he cons money from a lot of innocent people like my mother who fall for his smarmy smile and bullshit about one world of love and harmony."

"Surely he does some good," Dora suggested. "He said his church runs a soup kitchen for the homeless."

"So he hands out a few cheese sandwiches while he's dining at the homes of his suckers on beef Wellington. My father had his number. Every time he saw Callaway in his preacher's outfit, he'd ask him, 'How's white-collar crime today?'"

Dora laughed. "But your father allowed him in your home."

"For mother's sake," Felicia said wearily. "She's a true believer in Callaway and his cockamamy church."

"Is anyone else in your family a true believer? Your sister-in-law, for instance."

"Eleanor? All she believes in are the society columns. If she doesn't see her name in print, she doesn't exist. I don't know why I'm telling you all this; it's got nothing to do with the insurance."

"You never know," Dora said, and watched the other woman light another cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly.

She figured Felicia had already endured the big four-oh. She was a tall, angular woman, tightly wound, with a Nefertiti profile and hands made for scratching.

"I'll tell you something about Eleanor," she said brood-ingly. "We used to be as close as this…" She displayed two crossed fingers. "Then she and Clay had a kid, a boy, a beautiful child. Lived eighteen months and died horribly of meningitis. It broke Eleanor; she became a different woman. She told everyone: 'No more kids.' That was all right; it was her decision to make. But-and this is my own idea-I think it also turned her off sex. After a while my brother started playing around. I know that for a fact. One-night stands, nothing serious. But who could blame him; he wasn't getting any at home. And then Eleanor got on the charity-party circuit, and that's been her whole life ever since. Sad, sad, sad. Life sucks-you know that?"

Dora didn't reply.

"Well, enough soap opera for one day," Felicia said, and rose abruptly. "I've got to dash. Thanks for the drink. If you need anything else, give me a buzz."

"Thank you, Miss Starrett."

She tugged on her mink jacket, stood a moment looking down at Dora.

"Six years, huh?" she said. "I've never been married. I'm an old maid."

"Don't say that," Dora said.

"Why not?" Felicia said, forcing a laugh. "It's true, isn't it? But don't feel sorry for me; I get my jollies-one way or another. Keep in touch, kiddo."

And with a wave of a hand she was gone. Dora sat alone, feeling she needed something stronger than beer. So she moved to the bar and ordered a straight Chivas, Perrier on the side. She had never before had such a drink, but Felicia Starrett had ordered it, and Dora wanted to honor her. Go figure it, she told herself.

She had the one drink, then went upstairs to the corporate suite and worked on notes that would be source material for her report to Mike Trevalyan. Then she took a nap that worked wonders because she awoke in a sportive mood. She showered and phoned Mario while she was still naked. It seemed more intimate that way. Mario said he missed her, and she said she missed him. She made kissing sounds on the phone.

"Disgusting!" he said, laughing, and hung up.

She dressed, pulled on her parka, and sallied forth. It was a nippy night, the smell of snow in the air, and when she asked the Bedlington doorman to get her a cab, he said, "Forget it!"

So she walked over to Fifth Avenue and then south, pausing to admire holiday displays in store windows. She saw the glittering tree at Rockefeller Center and stopped awhile to listen to a group of carolers who were singing "Heilige Nacht" and taking up a collection for victims of AIDS.

She wandered on down Fifth Avenue, crisscrossing several times to inspect shop windows, searching for something unusual to give Mario for Christmas. The stone lions in front of the Library had wreaths around their necks, which she thought was a nice touch. A throng stood on line to view Lord amp; Taylor's animated windows, so she decided to see them another time.

She was at 34th Street before she knew it, and walked over to Herald Square to gawk at Macy's windows. It was then almost 7:30 and, having come this far, she suddenly decided to walk farther and visit Father Callaway's Church of the Holy Oneness.

It was colder now, a fine mist haloing the streetlights. She plodded on, hands deep in parka pockets, remembering what Detective Wenden had said about the stupidity of walking the city at night. She knew how to use a handgun but had never carried one, believing herself incapable of actually shooting someone. And if you couldn't do that, what was the point?

But she arrived at East 20th Street without incident, except for having to shoo away several panhandlers who accepted their rejection docilely enough. Stiffing them did not demonstrate the Christmas spirit, she admitted, but she had no desire to stop, open her shoulder bag, fumble for her wallet. Wenden didn't have to warn her about the danger of being fearless. She wasn't.

As Felicia Starrett had said, Callaway's church was located in a former store. It apparently had been a fast-food luncheonette because the legend TAKE OUT ORDERS was still lettered in one corner of the plate glass window. A wide Venetian blind, closed, concealed the interior from passersby, but a sign over the doorway read CHURCH OF THE HOLY ONENESS, ALL WELCOME in a cursive script.

Dora paused before entering and suddenly felt a hard object pressing into her back. "Your money or your life," a harsh voice grated. She whirled to see Detective John Wenden grinning and digging a knuckle into her ribs.

"You louse!" she gasped. "You really scared me."

"Serves you right," he said. "What the hell are you doing down here by yourself?"