She reacted as though I was intentionally screwing around with her. Which, in a way, I was.

"Oh no you don't. What does that mean? How is that different from being straight with me?"

The door to the tennis house flew open. Grateful for the diversion, I said, "I think your prey is about to enter the meadow. A herd of rich white guys over forty-five is approaching downwind."

She didn't even look in that direction.

"They won't bring Welle out that door.

Certainly not first. Not when there's all that money still inside waiting to be caressed. Don't change the subject on me. What are you not telling me about Welle?"

"That's not Welle, right there?" I asked, looking over her shoulder. The man I was pointing at was Welle's size and coloring but his back was turned to us.

The man was speaking to someone still standing in the doorway. I looked around for Phil Barrett, assuming he was never far from Raymond Welle's side. I didn't see a single pork chop in sight.

She turned away from me for a split second, then back. A cigarette had materialized in her hand.

"Where? That guy? It's just some dude in a dark gray suit. They all wear dark gray suits. I don't know… no, that can't be him.

The candidate never comes out of these things first. He still has the damn luncheon to go to."

"Looks like him."

She banged an open hand on the edge of the door and slammed it.

"I have to go.

We'll talk. You and me. We'll talk, count on it."

She was no more than ten feet into the driveway when I saw the first puff of smoke floating up around her head.

Of course, I thought the smoke was from her cigarette.

But the loud crack of a gunshot that immediately followed the puff of smoke caused me to rethink its source. I was sure it came from behind me. I screamed, "Dorothy, get down!"

She spun 180 degrees, bewildered, her hair flying. I yelled, "Someone has a gun.

Get down!" She stared at me as though I were a lunatic. Her eyes shined even brighter than before.

Only a total of five or six people had made their way out of the door of the tennis house by the time the shot rang out. They reacted to the blast by pushing and shoving at each other, scrambling to get back inside the building.

Two of them fell beside the concrete landing as they tried to force their way back in.

I couldn't tell whether the man who I thought was Welle was still outside.

Closer to me, Dorothy finally dropped to a crouch, the damn cigarette glued to her lips.

Another shot cracked the quiet, the slug hitting directly over the top of the door to the tennis house. I saw splintered brick flying. People started screaming, covering their heads.

A man in a distinctive green suit standing near the door yelled, "There!" and pointed right at me.

Behind me, I heard a car engine accelerate gently. I lowered myself farther onto my seat and turned to see a white Ford van pull away from the curb. The vehicle was unadorned and was heading in the opposite direction from mine. The driver was wearing a baseball cap of some kind, left elbow on the sill of the door, a raised hand spread casually in front of his or her face.

Before I had the presence of mind to look at the license plate, the car was around the corner and gone.

I waited for another shot. Nothing.

I spun back toward the tennis house. Three large men in gray suits with weapons in their hands were sprinting at my car.

I heard ravens cawing.

I wondered. Had I just seen the shooter?

Any plans I might have had for the rest of the day were put on hold by the arrival of a diverse group of law enforcement authorities who made it clear that my short-term freedom was dependent on my cooperation with their investigation.

More cops of more stripes than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. I met Denver police detectives, FBI agents, CBI agents, and some Secret Service people who had apparently stopped by just to offer their assistance.

News helicopters started hovering overhead. Microwave trucks from the local TV stations lined the distant perimeter of the neighborhood.

I kept asking everyone who approached me whether anyone had been hit by the bullets. I didn't get a straight answer. Two ambulances arrived, one with sirens and lights, the other traveling more incognito.

I watched two men and a woman wearing FBI baseball caps examine the sewer drain that was closest to my car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my vehicle to be searched. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and a platoon of forensic investigators descended on the car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my hands to be tested for trace metals to determine whether or not I'd recently fired a gun. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and I was swabbed and sprayed for evidence of gunshot residue.

After about an hour, I was escorted from the gardens adjacent to the tennis house to a location in the mansion for more formal questioning. The formal dining room would have been an appropriate setting but it was still set for lunch. No one was dining. I was led to the back of the house to a sunny room overlooking the rear yard. In other circumstances the setting would have been serene.

I kept telling myself that I was a witness. That was all. But from the queries being tossed my way over the course of about forty-five minutes, my best guess was that the cops were hypothesizing that I might actually have fired the gun before handing it off like a relay runner to the driver of the white Ford van. As the questions became more insistent I started moving with some rapidity toward a decision to demand to call an attorney. The attorney I planned to call would be my wife, an assistant district attorney. Lauren would know what to do, and would know whom to call next.

That's when they told me I was free to go.

Dorothy Levin was waiting for me on the long circular driveway of the mansion.

I asked if she was okay. She assured me that she was but didn't reciprocate by inquiring about my well-being-instead she pumped me for details about my interview with the cops and feds. Before I would tell her anything, I demanded that our conversation be on background.

She took a step back from me and glared at me as though I'd just spit on her.

"What? Background? You're just a witness to what happened. Same as me. Jesus, give me a break. A quote or two isn't going to kill you"

"I don't want my name in the paper." With an incredibly irritating whine, she said, "Poor baby, you don't want to get involved."

"Apparently I am. involved. So are you. I just don't especially want the world to know it."

"Somebody else will find out your name."

The man who had escorted me from the gardens earlier spotted Dorothy flipping open her notebook, a mechanical pencil between her teeth. He walked over briskly and said, "No press in here, ma'am. You're both going to have to exit the grounds."

She wasn't the least bit intimidated. She said, "Today, I'm a witness. Thanks so much for your help."

He pressed.

"Are you a reporter?"

"I said I'm a witness. What's your name? You have ID? Who are you with? Are you legal or rental? Let me get my camera, get a snapshot of you. My camera's in here someplace." She lowered her head to her big bag and started a search-and-rescue mission trying to locate the camera inside. I watched her push the jumble of panty hose out of the way.

The man turned and walked away.

Dorothy stopped her subterfuge.

"I don't actually have a camera. But God almighty I love being a reporter.

Okay, you win. We're on background. What happened in there?" I told her.

She was disappointed, as I assumed she would be.

"That's it?"

"That's it. Except I did hear one FBI agent whispering to another FBI agent that they thought they found the white van that drove away in the King Soopers lot up the street."