"Curiosity," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I had some time to kill," he said casually, "and figured I'd catch the preacher's act. Let's go in."

"Let's sit in the back," she suggested. "Mrs. Starrett may be here, and I'd just as soon she didn't see me."

"Suits me," he said. "I hope the place is heated."

It was overheated. About fifty folding chairs were set up in a long, narrow room, facing a low stage with a lectern and upright piano. The majority of the chairs were occupied, mostly by well-dressed matrons. But there were a few young couples, a scatter of single men and women, and a couple of derelicts who had obviously come in to warm up. They were sleeping.

A plump, baldish man was seated at the piano playing and singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" in a surprisingly clarion tenor. The audience seemed to be listening attentively. Conti and Wenden took off their coats and slid into chairs in the back row. Dora craned and spotted Mrs. Olivia Starrett seated up front.

The hymn ended, the pianist rose and left the stage, exiting through a rear doorway. The audience stirred, then settled down and waited expectantly. A few moments later Father Brian Callaway entered, striding purposefully across the stage. He stood erect behind the lectern, smiling at his audience.

He was wearing a long cassock of white satin, the sleeves unusually wide and billowing. The front was edged with purple piping, cuffs and hem decorated with gold embroidery. A diamond ring sparkled on the forefinger of his right hand.

"Father Gotrocks," Wenden whispered to Dora.

"Shh," she said.

"Good evening, brothers and sisters," Callaway began in a warm, conversational tone. "Welcome to the Church of the Holy Oneness. After the service, coffee and cake will be served, and you will be asked to contribute voluntarily to the work of the Church which, as many of you know, includes daily distribution of food to those unfortunates who, often through no fault of their own, are without means to provide for themselves.

"Tonight I want to talk to you about the environment. Not acid rain, the pollution of our air and water, the destruction of our forests and coastline, but personal environment, the pollution of our souls and the need to seek what I call the Divine Harmony, in which we are one with nature, with each other, and with God."

He developed this theme in more detail during the following thirty minutes. He likened greed, envy, lust, and other sins to lethal chemicals that poisoned the soil and foods grown from it. He said that the earth could not endure such contamination indefinitely, and similarly the human soul could not withstand the corrosion of moral offenses that weakened, debilitated, and would eventually destroy the individual and inevitably all of society.

The solution, he stated in a calm, reasonable manner, was to recognize that just as the physical environment was one, interdependent, and sacred, so the moral environment was one, and it demanded care, sacrifice, and, above all, love if we were to find a Divine Harmony with nature, people, and with God: a Holy Oneness that encompassed all joys and all sorrows.

He was still speaking of the Holy Oneness when Wenden tugged at Dora's sleeve.

"Let's split," he said in a low voice.

She nodded, and they gathered up their coats and slipped away. Apparently neither the pastor nor anyone in that rapt audience noticed their departure. Outside, the mist had thickened to a freezing drizzle.

"I've got a car," the detective said, "but there's a pizza joint just around the corner on Third. We won't get too wet."

"Let's go," Dora said. She took his arm, and they scurried.

A few minutes later they were snugly settled in a booth, breathing garlicky air, sipping cold beers, and waiting for their Mammoth Supreme, half-anchovy, half-pepperoni.

"The guy surprised me," Wenden said. "I thought he'd be a religious windbag, one of those 'Come to Jesus!' shouters. But I have to admit he sounded sincere, like he really believes in that snake oil he's peddling."

"Maybe he does," Dora said. "I thought he was impressive. Very low-key, very persuasive. Tell me the truth: How come you found time to catch him in action?"

Wenden shrugged. "I really don't know. Maybe because he's so smooth and has too many teeth. How's that for scientific crime detection?"

They stared at each other for a thoughtful moment.

"Tell you what," Dora said finally, "I'll ask my boss to run Callaway through our computer. But our data base only includes people who have been involved in insurance scams."

"Do it," the detective urged. "Just for the fun of it."

Their giant pizza was served, and they dug in, plucking paper napkins from the dispenser.

"How you coming with the Starrett family?" Wenden asked her.

"All right, I guess. So far everyone's been very cooperative. The net result is zilch. Why do I have a feeling I'm not asking the right questions?"

"Like what?" he said. "Like 'Did you kill your husband?' or 'Did you murder your father?' "

"Nothing as gross as that," she said. "But I'm convinced that family has secrets."

"All families have secrets."

"But the Starretts' secrets may have something to do with the homicide. I tell you, John-"

"John?" he interrupted. "Oh my, I thought you told me you were happily married."

"Oh, shut up," she said, laughing. "If we're going to pig out on a pizza together, it might as well be John and Dora. What I was going to say is that I mean no disrespect to the NYPD, but I think the official theory of a stranger as the murderer is bunk. And I think you think it's bunk."

He carefully lifted a pepperoni wedge, folded it lengthwise, began to eat holding a paper napkin over his shirt-front.

He had a craggy face, more interesting than handsome: nose and chin too long, cheekbones high and prominent, eyes dark and deeply set. Dora liked his mouth, when it wasn't smeared with pizza topping, and his hair was black as a gypsy's. The best thing about him, she decided, was his voice: a rich, resonant baritone, musical as a sax.

He wiped his lips and took a gulp of beer. "Maybe it is bunk," he said. "But I've got nothing better. Have you?"

She shook her head. "Some very weak threads to follow. Father Callaway is one. Clayton Starrett is another."

"What's with him?"

"Apparently he's cheating on his wife."

"That's a crime?" Wenden said. "The world hasn't got enough jails to hold all the married men who play around. What else?"

"You got anything on Charles Hawkins, the butler?"

He smiled. "You mean the butler did it? Only in books. You ever know a homicide where the butler was actually the perp?"

"No," she admitted, "but I worked a case where the gardener did the dirty work. I think I'll take another look at Mr. Hawkins. You going to drive me back to my hotel?"

"Sure," he said. "You going to ask me up for a nightcap?"

"Nope," she said. "A shared pizza is enough intimacy for one night. Let me get the bill; the Company can afford it."

"Okay," he said cheerfully. "My alimony payment is due next week and I'm running short."

"Need a few bucks till payday?" she asked.

He stared at her. "You're a sweetheart, you are," he said. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll get by."

She paid the check and they dashed through a cold rain to his car, an old Pontiac she figured should be put out to stud. But the heater worked, and so did the radio. They rode uptown listening to a medley of Gershwin tunes and Singing al°n§ with some of them. Wenden's voice might have been a rich resonant baritone, but he had a tin ear.

He pulted up outside the Bedlington and turned to her. "Thanks for the pizza," he said.

"Thanks for the company, John," she said. "I'm glad I bumped into you"

She started to get out of the car, but he put a hand on her arm.