He put his hand gently under my arm. "You look like you're going to keel over. Let's go sit in my car."

"I never liked Kitty," I said without thinking, resisting his pull. "I know she's dead, and that's bad enough. But the idea that somebody actually killed her . . . makes me feel . . ."

His hand tightened to support me. I was absurdly glad to feel a human touch at that moment.

Which was when Michael walked around the corner of the house, looking dangerous but out of jail. Richard released my arm instantly, as if we'd been teenagers necking on a front porch when a light came on.

Michael said to me, "If you're here, it must be a crime scene."

I wanted to fling myself into his arms and bawl with relief. But I didn't. "Reed called you? He probably thinks you'll fire him if I break a nail."

"He'd be right."

"Hello," said Richard, clearing his throat. "You must be Mick Abruzzo. I'm Richard D'eath, a friend of Nora's."

A friend? Since when?

I occasionally forgot what impact Michael had on mere mortals. Not only did his body seem to heat the air around him, but he had a face people associated with brutal murders committed in abandoned factories. Even grown men gave Michael plenty of space.

But Richard looked intrigued, and I gave him credit for not being frightened.

Michael shook his hand and gave the standard male New Jersey greeting, the phrase "How are you doing?" only shortened to a three-syllable mutter.

Richard responded with the same greeting, only the slightly more civilized four-syllable version. Then he said, "The cops think Kitty Keough was murdered here last night."

Michael cast a glance around, taking in the cops, the trees and the snow-covered flower beds with the casual but practiced eye of an expert. "Not a bad place for a shooting. Lots of cover. Stupid to do it here with all this snow, though."

Richard nodded. "Yeah, no way to cover your tracks."

"Cops know where the shooter waited?"

Richard shook his head. "What do you think?"

Michael turned around and visually measured the distance between the street and the garage. Then he observed a few more details that probably didn't include an appreciation for fine landscape design or meticulous garden maintenance. "Not a bad security system," he said at last. "A little outdated, maybe, for this neck of the woods."

The town car glided up to us just then, and Reed rolled down his window. Michael strolled over and leaned one elbow on the side of the car for a private conversation.

I harpooned Richard with a glare. "Don't do this, please."

"Do what?"

"He's not going to give you a quote for the paper."

"Are you his babysitter?"

"He's smarter than you think, Richard."

"I think he's plenty smart. Doesn't exactly look like a choirboy, though, does he? And it takes balls to stroll in here like this. The cops have spotted him already. See?"

Two police officers standing under the oak trees were sending furtive glances in Michael's direction, as if working out a plan to capture a loose tiger.

Reed drove off, and Michael sauntered back to me. "I'll take you home."

"I'm ready now."

"What about the shooter?" Richard asked. "Think he hung around long waiting for Kitty? Should we go look for cigarette butts or something?"

I thought Michael was going to ignore the question. He looked distracted and-I finally saw it-a little angry. But he lingered. He inclined his head past the croquet lawn. "I think he probably parked a few blocks away and climbed through those bushes that overgrow the fence over there. We had a breeze last night, and the moving branches probably confused the security sensors. If he had a lookout, that's where to put him, but a partner would have been a complication."

"Uh-huh."

"See the tracks he made as he hiked across the yard? Then he waited under those trees." With a jut of his chin, Michael indicated a clump of rhododendron that so far the police had taken no notice of. "He had to hang there until he got a clear shot at his target coming up to the garage door. Except if the spotlights work the way I think they do, he had a glare in his eyes."

"Which means?"

Michael shrugged. "Half a chance he shot the wrong person."

I opened my mouth but couldn't make words come out.

Even Richard couldn't hide his surprise. "The wrong . . . ?"

"An easy mistake," Michael said. "He was probably cold, his feet were wet, he picked a bad spot, wanted to get out of here. Amateur night, but there you go. Homicide cops will figure it out when they get here."

"Then who was supposed to be killed?" I asked.

Michael smiled at me. "That's your department, isn't it?"

We were interrupted again when a police officer gave a yelp.

Spike had bolted out of a snowbank, ears flat, teeth flashing. Like a stealth fighter, he had made a beeline for his target and attacked. He had seized the trouser leg of one of the loitering cops, who leaped into the air with more strangled cries. The cop landed on one foot and danced frantically on tippy-toe, trying to dislodge Spike by kicking, his shouts hoarse and his arms pinwheeling. Spike hung on, snarling ferociously. Another cop pulled his gun.

"No! Wait!"

I moved to head off Spike's attack, but the puppy caught sight of Michael and happily surrendered his prey. He broke loose, dashed over and leaped at Michael, who scooped him up and effortlessly subdued my dog by tucking him into the crook of his elbow-all with a mildly amused expression that conveyed the idea that Spike had only been teasing. Spike similarly endeavored to look angelic. But some kind of debris clung to his teeth as he panted smilingly.

The cops glowered at us.

"Let's go now," I said, "before Animal Control shows up."

For a moment, Richard looked as if he wanted to tag along. But when I set off to follow Michael, Richard merely waved. "See you around."

As Michael and I walked up the sidewalk with Spike, Orlando appeared out from between two police cruisers. The boy was nearly unrecognizable-dirty and sopping wet from playing in the snow. His hair dripped and his tie was in shreds-exactly matching the fabric in Spike's teeth-but Orlando's cheeks glowed pink.

Orlando eyed Michael. "Is that your puppy?"

"Hers."

"Oh."

"You can visit him anytime, Orlando," I said.

His face was very tight, and he tried to smooth the wrinkles from his wet parka. "I don't need to. He's just a dog."

"He doesn't make friends easily, though," I said. "I'm amazed by how much he likes you."

Orlando shrugged and turned away. "Dogs are stupid. I'd rather have a caiman. They eat live rabbits."

I wanted to run after Orlando and give him a hug, but the hunch of his shoulders told me it would not have been welcomed.

"Some kind of alligator," Michael said. "Now there's a nice cuddly pet for the kid who has everything."

"He didn't mean it."

Michael had driven one of his favorite vehicles, a sea-foam-green muscle car with a ridiculously long hood and the rear wheels jacked up as if ready to run moonshine across some county lines. He tucked me into the soft upholstery of the front seat before wrapping a filthy Spike into a towel he produced from the trunk. When Spike was clean and safely nestled on my lap, Michael slid behind the wheel and closed the door. He didn't start the car.

Something in his manner prevented me from sliding across the seat and wrapping my arms around his neck. He ran one hand down his face.

Calmly, I said, "Have you been absolved by the state police?"

His smile was weary at the edges. "For the moment."

"They kept you a long time."

"I'm out now."

He had changed his clothes since yesterday, which probably meant he went home for a shower as soon as the cops let him go. The clothes were things he hadn't kept at Blackbird Farm, so he'd gone to his own place. He had wanted to rid himself of the smell of the state police barracks as quickly as possible, I guessed, and out of my sight. I wondered if they'd put him in a cell.

An easy relationship required two people who had no pasts, I thought in that second. What had happened before we knew each other was starting to jeopardize what we hoped to build together now.

Looking out the windshield, Michael said, "Who's the professor?"

"Richard's a reporter, not a professor. I wish you hadn't spoken to him. Not about the murder."

"How long have you known each other?"

"A couple of months. He's a good journalist." I suddenly wondered if Michael was asking to be reassured.

But he said, "What does he think? About the Keough woman's death?"

"I don't know. At first I thought Richard was working on a story about Brinker Holt and Hemmings Lamb. But now he's after something else."

Michael hadn't been listening. "Nora, a lot has happened."

He didn't look at me, and suddenly I forgot how to breathe.

I said, "Are you out on bail?"

He laughed shortly and put the key into the car's ignition. "No, I'm out free and clear, thanks to Cannoli and Sons."

"What, then?"

"Danny Pescara was arrested a couple of hours ago. He confessed."

"Confessed? To what?"

Michael finally met my eye. "To killing Kitty Keough."

"Your cousin Danny killed Kitty?" My voice cracked. "How? Why?"

"How? By waiting for her here and shooting her. As for why, I have to assume he was hired."

"You mean as a hit man?"

"Yes. The moron stole her credit cards and used one to buy gasoline a day after he killed her. Arresting him was a piece of cake. I think the cops threatened to take away his comic book collection, so he screamed like a girl and gave up."

"Who hired him?"

"He's not talking about that-not yet, anyway-and the police only have a theory."

"Who do they think hired Danny?"

Michael said, "Me."

Chapter 9.

He looked out the windshield at two approaching men, one in a wool topcoat, the other wearing a shapeless orange jacket. They had already made eye contact with Michael through the glass. Michael said, "Here comes Homicide."

His phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket. "Yeah?"

He listened for a moment, then handed the phone to me.

"Hey, sis," called my sister Emma when I said hello. "I figured this was the best way to find you. The Love Machine giving you an extended nooner?"

Michael got out of the car to speak to the police. Spike scrambled across the seat to watch through the window.

"Where are you, Em?"

She gave a yawn. "Climbing out of a very comfy bed, as a matter of fact."

"Emma-"