"G.o.d. So O'Sullivan lost a s.h.i.tload of money on Benton. Who else might have gotten hurt when the company went under?"

Dad thinks about it a minute. "Well, O'Sullivan was the primary moneyman. But the research director and his staff would most likely have taken part of their compensation as equity in the company."

"Like the Microsoft people in the eighties?" I ask. "When the company went public, secretaries retired in their thirties as millionaires."

"Good a.n.a.logy. Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. When Benton went under, the equity became worthless."

"But it doesn't sound like O'Sullivan did anything illegal, does it? Why would he get in trouble over something like that?"

He shakes his head. "That I can't answer. As far as I know, O'Sullivan, apart from losing a h.e.l.l of a lot of his own money, did nothing wrong."

There's a timid knock on the door, and Trish peeks in. "Mom says breakfast is ready."

Dad smiles at her. "We'll be right there, honey."

He stands away from the desk and waits for me to lead the way out of the den. "You know," he says, "this Benton thing may not have anything at all to do with whatever trouble O'Sullivan had gotten himself into. I only mentioned it because it was odd. He was too good a businessman to take a company as far as he had only to dump the thing at the last minute. Something was off."

I acknowledge his last remark with a nod, filing the information away. My mind, however, has already moved on. To a more immediate problem. One that awaits me in the kitchen. How am I going to get out of here without insulting my mother yet again by refusing food?

CHAPTER 39.

TURNS OUT TO BE FAR EASIER THAN I THOUGHT. Mom is gathering purse and keys when Dad and I enter the kitchen.

She throws me an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Anna. I promised one of the women from church I'd help organize a fund-raiser for the new parish hall. I'm meeting her in about ten minutes. You visit with Trish and Dad, and I'll try to get back as soon as I can."

Her att.i.tude has softened, going from stiffly formal when she greeted me at the car, to being almost friendly. Is it for Trish's benefit?

I don't care. I give her a quick hug and tell her if I'm not here when she gets back, I'll be in touch soon.

I spend a few minutes sipping coffee and visiting with Dad and Trish before excusing myself. Trish is smiling and relaxed when I leave, making plans with Dad to go to a bookstore to find books on France. It's the only mention of the upcoming move. I'm much happier with this image of my family than the one I left with last night.

I head downtown to see Gloria. I'll tell her about my meetings with Jason and my dad, and ask if she's heard anything about O'Sullivan and Benton Pharmaceuticals. I'm about to pull under the portico at the Four Seasons and let the valet park my car when a cop waves me off. The hotel entrance is clogged with police cars and rescue vehicles. Most likely some overweight tourist suffered a sun-and-booze-induced heart attack. Happens all the time. I make a U-turn and park on the street.

I dodge through the crowd that's gathered in the lobby and make my way to a house phone. I have to dial the operator to be connected with the penthouse. There's the briefest of hesitations before the smooth voice on the other end of the line tells me she'll put the call through.

Looks like Gloria did add me to the list of people she'd deign to talk to. Good thing.

The phone rings three times before it is picked up.

"Gloria. It's Anna. I need to speak to you."

"Ms. Strong," a male voice answers. "Come up."

I don't recognize the voice. One of Gloria's lawyers maybe? "Who is this?"

"Detective Harris," he replies. "I'll tell the patrolman downstairs to show you right up."

Detective Harris? s.h.i.t. What did Gloria do now? "Why are you with Gloria?" I ask. "She didn't try to leave town, did she?"

"Depends on what you mean," he says, his voice gruff. "Ms. Estrella tried to kill herself."

I don't wait to hear anything else but hang up and head directly for the penthouse elevators. Harris didn't say she committed suicide, he said she tried to. Explains all the commotion in the lobby.

Now Gloria killing herself is about as plausible as Gloria killing O'Sullivan because he dumped her. She's much too self-absorbed to do either, but I wouldn't put it past her to stage a fake suicide in an attempt to get sympathy. Especially from David. That does sound like her. Ignore the deal we made. Attempt to influence the jury pool. I can think of a dozen reasons she might think a suicide attempt was a good idea.

I'm gearing myself up to lash out at her for being such a f.u.c.king idiot when Detective Harris meets me at the door.

"Where is she?"

He jabs a thumb toward the bedroom. "In there. She's in pretty bad shape."

"Will she live?"

He looks surprised at my tone. "Looks like it. I thought you were her friend."

I push past him, insides curdling with anger. I start yelling even before I get to the door. "If you think I'm going to run to David and tell him how you-"

The words die in my throat, choked off by what I see when I stomp into the room. Gloria is on the floor, propped up against the footboard of the bed. Her hair is matted and her makeup is in streaks. She has on a nightgown that's torn at the shoulder. Scattered around her are pill bottles and a single, empty bottle of scotch. She's been vomiting; it pools around her and drips down her mouth and chin. She holds a wet rag in a limp hand. The paramedics have stopped doing whatever it was they'd been doing before I arrived. They're standing back, keeping an eye on her, but gathering together their equipment. She doesn't seem to know that I've come into the room.

I turn to the one closest to me. "What happened?"

He's sliding a stethoscope into a bag. "Looks like she overdosed. On everything and anything she could find in the medicine cabinet. All over-the-counter stuff. Weird, really."

"Why?"

"Because she had much stronger prescription medicine in her handbag." He holds out a bottle of Valium. "If she'd taken the contents of this, we'd be wheeling out a corpse."

I watch as they make final preparations to leave. The paramedic's words seem to confirm my suspicion that Gloria staged this. A stunt to gain attention and sympathy.

Except for one thing.

If Gloria was going to put on this kind of show, she'd have d.a.m.n well staged it better. She'd be dressed to the nines, hair and makeup perfect. No way would a narcissistic woman like Gloria allow anyone to find her with vomit on her face and a torn, stained nightgown on that Barbie-doll body.

Detective Harris moves into the room to stand beside me.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"She'll be taken to the hospital, kept under guard."

"Will you revoke her bail?" "Depends on what the court-appointed shrink says after he talks with her. If he feels she's not a danger to herself, he'll let her come home. a.s.suming she has someone to come home to."

He says the last in a way that suggests I'm supposed to be the one she comes home to. I don't intend to commit to that now, but at the same time, I don't want to see Gloria in jail. I have too many questions to ask her. I answer Harris by saying nothing at all.

He lets a minute go by before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a notebook. He flips over pages until he finds what he's looking for. "I'm going to have to notify the DA about this," he says.

I turn to look at him, understanding full well the implications of a murder suspect attempting suicide. "I know what you're thinking, Detective Harris. You don't know Gloria the way I do. This isn't her style."

Then he surprises me by saying, "I don't think so, either."

One of the paramedics hands Harris a plastic bag with the discarded pill bottles. Aspirin, cold remedies and some kind of decongestant. The guy was right. If Gloria was attempting suicide for real, those were weird choices considering she had Valium.

The ambulance attendants lift Gloria onto a stretcher. Harris moves out of the way, giving me no opportunity to ask about his last remark. Obviously, I'm not the only one who feels there's something off about this scenario. Of course, we may both be wrong and Gloria took stuff she thought would only make her sick, not dead. She may not have gauged just how "sick" that would be.

But right now, the attendants are securing Gloria to the stretcher, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. They act as if they're ready to take her downstairs. I stop them with a hand on the cot.

"Aren't you going to clean her up?" I ask, hardly recognizing that it's my own voice making the suggestion.

They cast questioning glances at each other, then at me.

"You know who she is, don't you? She wouldn't want to be seen like this."

I can't believe I'm actually feeling sympathy for her. It's good that she doesn't realize it. Still, the two attendants aren't making any move to do anything. I take the wet cloth from her hand and wipe the mess off her mouth and chin, dab the makeup smears off her cheeks and do my best to smooth her hair. Her eyes follow my hands, but there's no spark of life, no animation.

"What's wrong with her?" I ask, alarmed at her lack of responsiveness. She should be grabbing at my hand or yelling.

One of the attendants shrugs. "Combination of the effects of the drugs and shock," he says. "She'll come around soon." He takes a card from a pocket. "We'll be taking her to County General. She'll be examined and held overnight for observation. You can check on her tomorrow morning."

I slip the card into a pocket of my jeans and watch as they wheel Gloria out. Harris follows, then one by one, the room empties until I'm the last person left.

I look around at the mess, pick up the phone and call housekeeping. Whatever they pay maids in this place, it isn't enough.

CHAPTER 40.

WHILE I WAIT FOR THE MAIDS, I GATHER UP GLORIA'S jewelry case and handbag and put them in a small Louis Vuitton canvas bag I find in the closet. I'll take it to her at the hospital when I see her tomorrow.

Tomorrow. If she's allowed to come home, who's going to babysit her? I'm not going to do it. I hate like h.e.l.l to be considering it, but I think it's time to enlist the help of the one who got me into this predicament to begin with. David. He brought Gloria into our lives. Much as I hate to throw them together, I don't know anyone else to ask.

The thought makes me twitchy with aggravation, but David is the one who came running when Gloria crooked her finger. He's the one who kept secret the fact that he'd been pursuing her all the time I was being sweet and sympathetic because I could see her absence was killing him. Gloria will live up to her bargain. I fully intend to tell David exactly what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. In the meantime, though, David can d.a.m.n well accept some of the responsibility to see that she's okay.

I glance at my watch. It's eleven thirty. Enough time to make the trip up to his cabin before keeping my house-breaking appointment at Chez O'Sullivan. If David was answering his d.a.m.ned phone, I wouldn't have to go at all. Still, seeing him in person is better. If he gives me any trouble, I'll drag him back by the hair.

I take a last look around the bedroom, wondering if there's anything else I should take. I open the drawers next to the bed, checking for stray jewelry or cell phones or stacks of cash. I find none of those. I do find three hotel telephone message sheets. The ones she palmed yesterday?

The first is from her agent. I wonder how getting arrested for murder affects your marketability?

The second and third are from Jason. Marked urgent. Dated yesterday.

Did she return his calls?

The maids arrive, interrupting my train of thought, and I take my leave. The lobby is still crowded with reporters and hotel guests drawn to the commotion. Until this moment, I don't think anyone knew where Gloria was staying. Now the whole world knows.

I leave the hotel by a back entrance and start for my car. I'm fifty feet away when I spot her.

Tamara. Sandra's muscle-bound werewolf pal.

Sitting on the hood of my car.

Sitting on the hood of my car.She's dressed in leathers, and even from this distance, I can see the long, thin scratches made from the studs on those pants when she scooted herself up on the hood.

A surge of white-hot fury races along my spine.

She's Sandra's friend. She scratched my car.

I'm not sure what makes me angrier.

I move so fast, she never sees me coming. I hook my hands under her arms and lift her off the car, turn and dump her on the sidewalk. She makes one, short, startled yelp as her a.s.s. .h.i.ts the concrete. She bounces once, like a big, dumb Nerf ball.

Two kids are skateboarding on the other side of the street. One lifts his fist in a salute. "That was awesome, dude," he yells.

Yeah. Awesome.

My eyes never leave Tamara's face. If she's here, where is Sandra? My blood races, senses leap to high alert. In one blinding moment of rage, the vampire takes control.

I look around.

Tamara is stumbling to her feet, scrambling backward, out of my reach. The fall knocked the wind out of her. Her mouth is open, her eyes wide. No sign of the bully who challenged me in Culebra's bar.

"Where is she? Where is Sandra?"

Tamara is having a hard time catching her breath. She's got a hand to her throat and one to her chest. She's gulping air, her face contorts with the effort.

I wait. I'm trembling as much as Tamara. The uncontrollable panic I felt last night is battling with the anger. Fear is winning. I want nothing more than to run away, to hide, because I know if Tamara is here, Sandra must be, too.

I grab Tamara, shake her until her teeth rattle. "Where is she?"

Tamara flinches. She raises both hands and tries to push me away. She can't. Finally, she gives up, drops her hands. "She's not here," she says.

I don't let go. I squeeze and slide my fingers up her collarbone until they're around her throat. "Where is she?"

Tamara's eyes flash. She's recovering. I sense it-the shift from being caught off guard by my attack to getting p.i.s.sed because I coldc.o.c.ked her. I tighten my grip until color floods her face and she's gasping again for air. No way am I going to let her regain enough strength to fight me. I remember her from the bar-she outweighs and outmuscles me-and I remember Sandra's strength last night.

She's pulling at my hands. Her eyes are wide again, pleading.

I relax my grip. Not much, enough for her to be able to draw an uneven breath. I lean my face close to hers.