“I was referring to Sasha’s fall from her terrace,” Bonner said, “and only one of these persons was present when she… fell.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. It’s not very interesting at all, he thought. So much for ESP.

“I warn you, Stone,” Barker said, “Edith does not make such statements lightly. You should take her seriously.”

“Unfortunately,” Stone replied, “I’m no longer in a position to do so, and I have no reason to believe that anyone assigned to the case would be interested in hearing from me about any theory whatsoever. Edith, if you feel strongly about this, perhaps you should contact Lieutenant Leary, who is commander of detectives at the 19th Precinct.”

Bonner shook her head. “No,” she said, “he wouldn’t listen to me. I’ve done what I can, now; I’ll have no more to say on the subject.” She returned to her dinner and her silence.

Soon the party moved back to the living room for coffee and brandy. Stone chatted at some length with Frank Woodman and found that he liked the man.

Later, when people made a move to leave, Bonner appeared at Stone’s elbow. “There’s something I didn’t want to mention at the table,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Sasha Nijinsky is not finished with you.”

“Well, I’m afraid the NYPD has finished with me.”

“But not Sasha. There’s a connection between the two of you that you don’t seem to know about.”

“A connection?”

“A… well, a spiritual connection.”

“But I never knew her.”

“Do you think it was a coincidence that you were there when she fell from that balcony?”

“It couldn’t be anything else.”

“It was no coincidence. You and Sasha are bound together, and you won’t be released until she is found and you know what happened to her.”

“Edith, I’m going to do everything I can to put Sasha out of my mind permanently.”

Bonner smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that.” Then her expression turned serious. “There’s something else,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I feel that you are, or will be, in some sort of jeopardy, resulting from your connection with Sasha.”

“Jeopardy? How?”

“I don’t know. I only know that you are at risk, and, if you are not very careful indeed, this thing with Sasha could destroy you.”

“Some would say it already has,” Stone said. “At least with regard to my career as a police officer.” He was near to confiding in her, now, and it surprised him.

“I mean destroy you entirely – mortally. In fact, I have the very strong feeling that your chances of surviving this crisis are poor – certainly, you will not come through without help, and you may not get it.”

Stone pushed away the chill that threatened to run through him. “Edith,” he managed to say, “I appreciate your concern for me, but please don’t worry too much. It’s my intention to stay just as far away as I can from the Nijinsky case or anything to do with it.”

“You won’t be able to do that,” Bonner said. She looked away from him. “I’m sorry.”

Stone was awakened in the best possible way. “You’re going to kill me,” he said.

“Mmmmmmm,” she replied, concentrating her efforts. “It’s only fair; you nearly killed me last night.”

“I couldn’t think of anything else to do,” he gasped.

Sunlight streamed into the room, and his blurring vision made the sparsely furnished chamber seem somehow heavenly. A moment later, everything came into sharp focus, and he closed his eyes and yelled.

“You’re noisy,” she said.

“It’s your fault. You made me.”

“I want some breakfast.”

“You just had breakfast, and I’m not sure I can walk.”

She got up and went into the bathroom. Stone heard the water running, and he had nearly dozed off when she came back. She crawled into bed, and, suddenly, there was something icy on his belly.

He yelled again and leapt out of bed. “Jesus Christ, was that your hands?”

“ New York City tap water gets very cold in the wintertime,” she said. “As long as you’re up, could I have an English muffin, marmalade, orange juice, and coffee?”

“I suppose if I get back into bed you’ll just attack me with the iceberg hands again.”

“Right. But they’ll warm up while you’re fixing breakfast.”

Defeated, Stone got into a bathrobe and went downstairs to the kitchen. He stuck the muffins into the toaster oven, got coffee started, and went to the front door. He peeked up and down the street, then tiptoed out onto the frosty stoop and retrieved the Sunday Times. He was back inside before he registered all that he had taken in. He cracked the door again and looked up the block. A plain green, four-door sedan was parked on the other side of the street, and two men inside it were sipping coffee from paper cups. He didn’t know them, but he knew who they were.

He went back to the kitchen, got the breakfast together, loaded it onto a cart, and wheeled it into the old elevator, which made the usual creaking noises on the way up.

Cary was asleep, sprawled across the bed, the sunlight streaming across her naked body. He stopped and looked at her for a moment, that length of delicious woman, the flat belly, the swelling breasts with their small, red nipples, the dark hair strewn across the pillow. Slowly, quietly, he sneaked onto the bed and carefully set a glass of chilled orange juice onto a nipple.

“Oooooo,” she said without moving. “What a nice way to wake up. Could I have something on the other one, please?”

“You’re unsurprisable,” he said, setting the orange juice on her belly and returning for the rest of the breakfast. He put the tray on the bed between them while she struggled into a sitting position and fluffed up the pillows.

“I like the sun in the morning,” she said. “It’s better than blankets.”

He drank his juice and reached for the Times.

“I get the front page,” she said, snatching it away.

He settled for the book review and munched on a muffin.

“Oh, shit,” she said suddenly.

“What is it?”

She clutched the front page to her breast. “You aren’t at fault here,” she said. “You have to get that through your head. This is not your fault.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He tugged at the newspaper, and she gave it up reluctantly.

SUSPECT IN NIJINSKY CASE IS APPARENT SUICIDE

Henrietta Morgan, a makeup artist for the Continental Network who police sources say was implicated in the fall of television anchorwoman Sasha Nijinsky from the terrace of her East Side penthouse apartment, last night apparently took her own life in her Greenwich Village apartment.

Ms. Morgan, who was known as “Hank” and who was active in gay and lesbian rights issues in the city, had been questioned about Ms. Nijinsky’s fall, then last week was arrested and charged with possession of an unlicensed pistol. She had been released on bail, but sources in the New York Police Department had told the press that Morgan was the chief suspect in the Nijinsky case.

In a late-night statement from City Hall, Deputy Police Commissioner Lawrence Waldron announced that the death of Ms. Morgan had effectively closed the investigation into Ms. Nijinsky’s fall. Waldron said that Ms. Nijinsky’s disappearance after an ambulance collided with a fire truck while on her way to a hospital was still being investigated by the F.B.I., who are treating her incident as a kidnapping, which is a federal crime.

Stone felt ill. He rubbed his face briskly with his hands and tried to fight back the nausea.

“It’s not your fault,” Cary said again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water onto his face. Then he thought about the unmarked car downstairs. He went back into the bedroom and got back into his robe. “I’ll be right back,” he said.