“You okay?”

He must have moaned because the driver was looking at him in the rearview mirror, his face furrowed with concern.

Duran nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I—I’ve got a bad tooth.”

The driver grinned as the cab pulled up to the portico in front of Duran’s apartment building. “For a moment,” he said, “I’m thinking a loa has you.” Then he laughed.

Duran smiled and shook his head. Handing the driver a twenty-dollar bill, he reached to open the door and step out. Above his head, the rain was pounding on the roof, a sudden deluge.

“You can wait, my friend,” the driver told him in a solicitous voice. “Sit tight. Or you’ll be soaked before you get inside.”

Duran thanked him, but got out anyway, and just as the driver had promised, he was instantly soaked to the skin. Not that he minded. The rain and the cold took his mind off the ochre room. And that was a blessing.

After a long moment of standing in the rain, he entered the building’s antiseptic lobby, which was silent and deserted. Home again, home again, jiggedy jig, he thought, the words larded with sarcasm. The truth was, he felt no connection whatsoever to this place. It was like an all suite hotel, or the apartment of a friend who’d gone out of town for the weekend. Comfortable, certainly, but nothing to do with him.

Five minutes later he was in the shower, with the steam rising and the water tap dancing on his shoulders. He’d begun to feel better as soon as he entered the apartment, but he didn’t feel good—really good—until he’d toweled off, and was sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand, watching Jane Pauley.

Ace Johnson’s deposition was delayed for hours, as the opposition’s lead counsel cooled her heels at LaGuardia, waiting for the weather to clear so that she could take the Shuttle to D.C. They might have moved the depo to the following week but it wasn’t practical. Slough was going out of town in the morning, and Johnson was set to have a hernia operation on Monday.

It was agreed, then, that they’d begin deposition as soon as possible—which, in the event, was 4:15 that afternoon. By the time they were done, it was almost nine, and everyone was exhausted.

Though the give-and-take had gone about as well as could be expected (from the client’s point of view), it would not be accurate to say that Adrienne had covered herself in glory. On the contrary. Her role in the proceeding was essentially one of support, which is to say that she was there to anticipate Curtis Slough’s every need. In this, however, she had more or less failed. She’d misplaced a memo that her boss had hoped to introduce and, soon afterward, had been chided for daydreaming midway through her own witness’s testimony.

“Daydreaming” was Slough’s word. In point of fact, she’d been thinking about Duran’s panic attack of the day before. It had almost panicked her to see him like that, recoiling from the idea that she might be the cause of so much dread. But maybe Bonilla was right. Maybe Duran had been faking it. Maybe he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a psychopath like…

Ted Bundy. Ted Bundy had been good-looking, too. And didn’t he have some kind of fake cast for his arm, slipping it on so that he could ask people for help? Wasn’t that how he’d lured them—with his neediness? It put his victims off guard, so that the predator seemed vulnerable rather than dangerous.

She really wanted to go home, curl up in bed and sleep, but Slough made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Let’s get something to eat,” he told her. “It’s been a helluva day.”

“I thought Johnson did rather well,” Slough enthused, as he washed down a bit of mesclun with a sip of martini.

Adrienne shrugged. “All he really had to do was remember that he couldn’t remember. It was literally a no-brainer.”

Slough chuckled. “Even so… “ Then he sat back, and cocked his head, as if deciding what to do with her. Finally, he leaned forward and, in a confidential tone, suggested that, “You seemed a little stressed this afternoon. Is it still that thing with your sister?”

Still… ? It had only been about three weeks. And that thing? As if Nikki was something shameful, something you didn’t mention in polite company. “I’m sorry,” Adrienne replied, “I was just… out of it.” She shook her head. “It won’t happen again.”

His face burst into a little blister of concern. “If you need some time off… I mean, I noticed you were gone yesterday afternoon.”

“I—”

He raised his hand. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t mean to pry. But, if you need a little time… ?”

Adrienne shook her head reflexively.

“Well, just let me know.” He gave her a pat on the arm.

‘A little time’? Uh-oh, Adrienne thought, this is one of those moments. With a soft sigh, she caught her lower lip in her teeth, then let it go and smiled at him. Crinkled eyebrows. Big smile. Sincere smile, much practiced while “in care.” Nikki used to make fun of her earnest, big-eyed smile, trotted out in times of crisis. ‘Oh it’s Orphan Girl,’ she’d say, with her Please Please Please adopt me smile.’ Only this time the smile’s message was: forgive me.

“I’ve been a little distracted,” she said. “You know, Nikki… “ She looked at her hands, then back up at Curtis Slough. “She was… ummm… the last relative I had.” Then, as if she’d confessed too much, she hurried to add: “Not that we were that close—”

“You don’t have any other family?!” Slough asked. “No parents!?” His eyes were wide, his tone suggesting that he found her situation as freakish as it was sad.

She shrugged. “No. I’m it: end of the line.”

“Jesus!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, well,” she said in a deadpan voice, “he was the end of his, too.”

Slough didn’t get it at first. It took him a second. Then he threw back his head in a well-rehearsed laugh, and wagged a finger at her. “There’s that speed you’re famous for. Let’s see more of that.”

It was 11:15 when she finally got home, having had to wait twenty minutes for a bus so that, by the time she got to Mount Pleasant, she was out on her feet.

As always, there was a handful of men hanging out in front of the Diaz Cantina on the corner. She liked the music that spilled from the doorway, but was always uncomfortable with the men’s stares and whispered exclamations. Ai-iiii-que chica sabrosa! So she tacked toward her apartment, as if the neighborhood were a lake, crossing the street, rather than moving in a straight line.

Her street, Lamont, was entirely residential, composed of substantial, turn of the century rowhouses—many of which had been carved up into apartments. The first two blocks were full of beautifully rehabbed houses, but farther down toward the zoo, where she lived, gentrification had been slow and uneven, the neighborhood retaining an urban edge that kept property values down. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but break-ins and muggings were not unknown and pedestrians—especially women—were careful. Late at night, they tended to walk down the middle of the street (as Adrienne did now), rather than on the sidewalks.

When the houses were built, it had been the custom to construct service alleys, and a network of these ran behind the houses, parallel to the streets on either side. The alleys were now lined with garages that differed wildly in materials and design—one thrown up with particleboard, another built with carriage lamps and brick.

The entrance to her basement apartment was at the rear of a federal-style townhouse, which was accessible only through the garage. To get to it, she had to go through the alley—which was fine in daylight, or when she was in her car and could use the garage door opener without having to get out. But she hardly ever drove to work—it cost her twelve dollars a day to park. And it was rare that she got home when the sun was still up (except, perhaps, in the summer). So the alley was something she had to contend with, almost daily.