She unlocked the door as Caesar jumped off the sofa and barked.

"Too late, pal," she told him with disgust. "Hi," she greeted Marty warily.

"Hi yourself. I wanted to call you but you said you didn't have a phone yet."

"You mean one of those newfangled machines that interrupt your every waking hour?"

"Ah, that's the one," Marty said with a grin. "I thought you would like to know I sold the last of your sculptures."

Relief--and pride--rushed through her. She waited for Marty to continue.

"I want as many as I can get. They've sold better than any item I've carried." Marty paused. "And I want to invite you to supper. A barbecue with a few of my friends. It's time you started to meet other people."

Panic seized her throat, clogging it with questions. What would she tell them? About Harry's father? About her past life?

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e with anxiety. "I haven't felt well all day, and Harry--"

"There will be other children there," Marty interrupted. "It would be good for him."

"We have a new dog. I don't think Harry ..."

"Dogs are welcome, too. And no wonder you don't feel well. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks."

Did she look that bad? Did the sleepless nights show in her face?

"Please, Mommy, can we? Can we go?" Harry was by her side. Pleading.

"You can walk there," Marty said, tempting her. "I promise you can leave anytime. No questions asked."

But what if Harry slipped up and mentioned his real name? What if he talked about his father to other children when she'd told everyone she was a widow?

"Please?" Harry said again.

But wasn't this what she wanted for him? Normal relationships with normal people? Friends?

Should she take the chance? Perhaps she could make a game of it. Challenge him to remember that he was Harry from Chicago. If he said anything wrong, they would flee again. But, darn it, he needed friends.

"We would like that," she said.

A broad smile transformed Marty's weathered face. She was one of many aging flower children who had found their way to Bisbee years earlier. Holly had already discovered the older woman had a tendency to mother everyone she met.

"Around six," Marty said.

Feeling trapped, Holly just nodded. She needed Marty's goodwill.

"Just bring yourselves," Marty said. "Very casual." She handed Holly a little map. "No parking up there, I'm afraid."

"We'll walk."

"Good. And remember, I'll take as many of those garden creatures as you can give me. Don't take them anywhere else."

Marty's enthusiasm was contagious. Someone actually liked her art. "You might regret that."

"I don't think so." Marty looked down at Caesar. "Ah, you have Caesar," she said with a lilt in her voice. "I'm glad he found a good home."

"You must know Julie at the animal shelter then?"

"Live here long enough and you know nearly everyone and everyone's business," Marty said. "She'll be at supper, too."

'Know nearly everyone's business'. A shudder ran through Holly. Perhaps a large city would have been more anonymous. She had second thoughts, and third, about accepting the invitation, but there was no way to retreat now.

Marty gave a little wave and walked down to what must have been the most ancient Volkswagen Bug on the roads. The paint was rusted, but the car started immediately.

'Work'. She had to get back to work. She had a son to support. She wouldn't think about tonight, except to warn him about "the little game." Still, she felt the growing web of lies strangling her.

'NEW ORLEANS'.

Gage heard about the attack on Meredith Rawson from another detective.

Any violence against a former a.s.sistant district attorney was news. It could be payback from a bad guy she'd put away. That was something a police department could not tolerate.

Those attacks always received special attention.

But she was also in a legal specialty that attracted threats. There was nothing more dangerous than a bully husband who'd lost his favorite victim. But it wasn't murder, and he wasn't involved.

Or was he?

He did not believe in coincidence.

All of a sudden, Ms. Rawson's name--or her family's name--was appearing a little too often. His instincts were prodding him, and he trusted those instincts. Even a mental warning that none of the events seemed connected didn't subdue them.

Because he didn't want them subdued?

He soaked up all the rumors, all the talk flying around the offices.

She'd not been hurt. She'd used her head. Her home had been practically destroyed. She was staying in a hotel. She refused protection.

'It's not your case.'

He knew he would be on thin ice if he approached her. The case was in someone else's hands, and poaching was not appreciated. But her father's name 'had' surfaced in one of his cases.

He took the files from the Prescott case and looked at them again, though he knew them by heart. The investigators obviously had not wanted to annoy New Orleans's powers-that-be. Charles Rawson had been asked very few questions. Yes, he was a friend of the victim. Yes, he had dined with Prescott the night of the murder, then Rawson had gone home after an argument. There was no follow-up, no note as to whether the wife had been interviewed to verify the statement or even what the argument had been about.

He was going to start with Rawson's wife. A surprise visit might shake her.

He looked up the phone number and called, only to learn that Mrs. Rawson was in critical condition at the hospital. So that was why Meredith had been there. When he had heard she'd been attacked in a hospital parking lot, he'd a.s.sumed she'd been visiting a client, or a friend.

Gage sat there for several moments, weighing his next move. It obviously was not Mrs. Rawson.

Meredith Rawson? Or her father?

He called Rawson at his law firm, only to discover that he was in court. He hesitated, then tried Meredith Rawson's law office. He wanted to know more about the burglary as well, and whether Rick Fuller could be involved. More than once, a husband had gone after the wife's attorney.

To his surprise, she answered the phone.

"Ms. Rawson, Detective Gaynor."

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

"I would like to talk to you."

"About Rick Fuller?"

"No. Another matter."

"This is not a good day."

"I heard about the attack and burglary. I'm sorry."

A short pause. "Is that what you want to discuss?"

"No. I'm looking into an old case. Oliver Prescott."

"I remember that," she replied cautiously. "Is there something new?"

He chose to ignore that question. "You knew him. I hoped you could tell us something about him."

"I was in school at the time. I knew him, of course, but not that well. He was much older. I don't know how I could help you."

"Just a few questions, a few moments of your time. Perhaps you know more than you think."

"My mother is very ill. My house has just been ransacked and my computer stolen. I simply don't have the time. If I knew anything--"

"What about lunch? A quick sandwich."

She paused, then, with an audible sigh, said, "If you'll bring it to my office. We're backing up all our files. I have to be here."

"Done. What will it be?"

"Comfort food. A m.u.f.faletta."

"You have it. Noon okay?"

A pause. He feared she was reconsidering.

"I have two people working with me."

"I'll bring enough for all."

"I still don't know how I can help--"

"I'll be there at noon," he said, and hung up before she could change her mind.

As soon as Gaynor hung up, Meredith wished she hadn't agreed. In fact, she didn't know exactly why she had.

She'd had three hours' sleep at most. And what sleep she'd had had been restless. Her life seemed to be in free fall.

She'd risen at seven as she always did and called the hotel's front desk to see if anything had arrived for her. It had. The new key to her house was in an envelope. Then she'd hurried to her office to see for herself that her office was untouched.

Sometime today, she had to return home and start cleaning up the mess. She had to see her mother. She'd promised the police she would make a list of people who might want to do her harm. She wanted to get started on finding her sister.

There was no end to this day. And now this. She definitely should have said no. She should never have picked up the phone, but she often did when they were all busy. Most callers wanted her.

She didn't know if she was alert enough to go head-to-head with Gaynor. Why in G.o.d's name would he want to talk to her about a fifteen-year-old murder? At least, she thought it had been that long.

She went to her computer. Sarah was using her computer to back up files. This time the compact disks would go into a safe deposit box.

She looked up Oliver Prescott on the Internet and found dozens of stories about the murder. The number had dwindled as time had pa.s.sed without any apparent progress in the investigation.

Now she remembered more. She'd been sixteen at the time and attending accelerated cla.s.ses at a respected Catholic school. She'd been on a cla.s.s trip to Washington, D.C., that weekend. The murder had been the main topic of conversation for weeks.

Meredith read all the accounts she could find.

Prescott and her father had dined together at the Court of Two Sisters, where they apparently discussed some business matter. Witnesses saw the two separate outside the restaurant, each taking his own car.

Prescott's body was found the next morning in his home. He had been shot. There was no indication of a break-in, but his wallet was missing. So was a very expensive painting.

Clues had been scarce.

She realized why Gaynor wanted to talk to her. Her father had been the last known person to be with the victim. The police always started at that point.

But why did the detective want to see her? Why not her father?

She returned to backing up her files, then went into Sarah's office. "How's it going?"

"Another hour."

Meredith looked at her watch. "Someone's bringing us lunch."

Sarah raised an eyebrow, even as she replaced one CD with another and carefully marked the one she had just ejected. When Meredith didn't immediately answer, Sarah asked, "Who? And more important, what?"

"m.u.f.falettas."

"I can deal with that," Sarah said. "It's far better than my tuna salad. Should I ask who again?"

"A detective."