Richard said, "I can see why Gallagher went to Ireland. He had to get away from the kid."

"Thank you for bringing me home," I said.

Richard glanced up at the crumbling walls of my house and took note of the sagging porch roof and drooping eaves. "This place is a museum. When does Benjamin Franklin show up?"

"Actually," I said, feeling rejuvenated by the fresh air and the knowledge that Michael was back on the radar screen, "Ben Franklin paid a few calls on my great-great-something-grandmother. She was quite the beauty, judging by her portrait. Story goes, she gave him a hickey."

"Looks like you haven't done any home repairs since she lived here."

"I've got a few bills to pay before I can afford fix-up projects. Anyway, I've come to like the shabby-chic look."

He looked at me. "How come your boyfriend doesn't kick in a few dollars? I hear he's loaded."

"It's my house, not his."

"He doesn't live here?"

I didn't answer.

Richard shrugged. "I've always wondered. What does a guy like Abruzzo put on his tax return in the little box marked 'occupation'?"

To terminate that discussion before it went any further, I said, "Thanks for being so patient with Orlando. It was a long ride this afternoon."

"I wasn't patient." He allowed a rueful smile. "But you owe me big anyway."

"Okay," I said steadily. "How about if I give you some information?"

"Such as?"

"I think Gallagher was paid to leave town because he designed the Brinker Bra."

"The chauffeur?" Richard couldn't hide his surprise. "How do you figure?"

"He's an inventor. My bet is he sold his idea for a bra to Brinker Holt, and Brinker wants him to be quiet about it. If nothing else, Brinker knows how to intimidate people into doing what he wants."

"So who killed Kitty Keough?"

"Kitty knew Gallagher. She probably figured out he invented the bra."

"So Brinker had her killed? Or did he intend to get rid of Gallagher instead, and Kitty wandered into Pescara's sights at the wrong time?"

"I don't know."

"Does the boy know anything?"

"It's possible. When the time is right, I'll ask."

"If he does know something, he becomes a target, too." Richard glanced at the door through which Michael had vanished with Orlando.

"He'll be safe here. That is," I said, "until the newspapers are published tomorrow morning."

"About that." Richard put his hands into his coat pockets. "Believe me, I'm the first to write a story when it's something worth writing about. If this turns out to be a case of Brinker Holt killing Kitty to keep his secret, I'll write it. But there's not enough evidence yet. Not today, anyway. Maybe by tomorrow I'll know more, but until I do-"

"Thank you, Richard."

He observed my smile for a long moment. Then he said, "I'll find a way to talk to Brinker tonight."

"How?"

"Let me worry about that. Look, I'll find out what he's doing. You stick around here and help Abruzzo protect the kid. Not that he needs any more help besides the teamsters." He jerked his head to indicate Aldo's makeshift checkpoint at the head of my driveway.

"I'll tell Michael he has your vote of confidence."

"Your safety, that's something else."

I started to turn away. "Good-bye, Richard. Thank you, but-"

He stopped me with a hand on my wrist. His touch dropped away immediately. "Nora, you haven't known this man very long. But I've studied guys like him for years now. He's a terrorist, you know."

"You're being melodramatic."

"Am I? You saw how he was with the kid just now. He was born into a life that's based on intimidation and violence. And it's a life he can't exactly resign from."

"You don't know him."

Michael was a man of honor and integrity. His own brand of honor, perhaps, but he had thought long and hard about the kind of code he should be living by. He did the right thing when he had a choice. But saying so out loud to Richard was going to sound as if I'd been brainwashed.

So instead I said, "He has a sense of humor."

Richard said, "I have a sense of humor."

"I wasn't questioning your-"

"I can be funny," he said with more insistence.

"Richard-" I said, and stopped.

We were standing close together on the porch. The wind stirred his fair hair, and I noticed his two-toned eyes again. One blue, one hazel. In them, I suddenly saw his impulse to kiss me.

Like a nervous prom date, he lingered, torn between desire and caution. Or maybe he suddenly envisioned Michael unpacking his tommy gun from its violin case behind the kitchen door. I took a step backward.

Richard did, too. "Call me if anything changes with Orlando," he said. "Let me concentrate on Brinker."

"Good luck tonight."

"Don't worry."

He departed. Inside, I found Michael and Orlando on the sofa with their shoes off and their sock feet on my coffee table. Spike sprawled manfully between them. Intently, the three watched a television program about a diminutive teenage girl who appeared to be kung-fu-ing vampires without messing up her pretty blond hairdo.

Orlando looked hopeful, his upset stomach forgotten. "Got any ice cream?"

Michael grinned. "Or beer?"

Orlando said, "We're just gonna hang for a while. Stay out of trouble."

"Don't make any promises you can't keep," I said, and Michael laughed. Orlando looked pleased.

I went upstairs and changed into jeans and a sweater. On my way back downstairs, the phone rang.

When I answered, Delilah Fairweather's exuberant shout resounded in my ear. "Girlfriend," she called, "I hear you're having a splash on New Year's, and I just wanted to warn you that I'm coming with friends!"

"Great," I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. "It'll be wonderful to see you. Uh . . . how many friends?"

"Half a dozen, maybe a couple more. Everybody's thrilled you're having your party again. I told one of my assistants that you are the best, bar none, at mixing people, and she's dying to come, too."

"Well-"

"And she has a boyfriend who bartends in a thong, so I thought you'd definitely want him, too."

"Oh. Thanks."

Delilah had given up a computer programming job to live the dream of partying day and night. In a matter of a couple of years, she had become the city's busiest event planner. She usually called me from a dance floor or caterer's kitchen. Tonight, however, I could hear the bluesy blare of a saxophone in the background over noisy voices making conversation. A burst of laughter sounded in my ear.

Besides her talents with music, food, flowers and fun, Delilah knew everybody worth knowing in Philadelphia and half the cities east of the Mississippi.

So I carried the telephone into the library, where Michael had obviously built a fire earlier. The flames had died down to warm embers, creating a room that was actually cozy. I curled up on the leather sofa between the bookshelves. "Delilah, have you ever done any work for Brinker Holt?"

"Brinker, give a party? Get real! That guy's a colossal mooch."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Those loft condos by the waterfront," she said promptly. "A couple of weeks ago when he came back to town he bought a place in the old warehouse Val McGinley rehabbed. I hear the units are a million four apiece, if you're in the market."

"Not unless I win the lottery. Those condos were all taken by artistic people, right?"

"Only the ones with money. The creative class-computer game guys, a few financial whizbangers, a woman who writes screenplays-oh, and the producer of a TV show that films here in the city."

"And Brinker."

"And Brinker. He paid Jerzy Coleman another quarter mil to improve the kitchen-just so he has a place to eat take-out pizza, I guess. Not exactly a classy guy, if you ask me. But I'd like to get my hands on one of those new gadgets of his. The Brinker Bra-people say it makes even a girl like me look like I've got tantalizing ta-tas."

"You're tantalizing just the way you are," I assured her. Delilah had once worn a dress made of bubble wrap to a gallery opening, and that night she managed to outshine the work of a nationally famous artist. "Know anything useful about Brinker's private life?"

"What are you asking for, girl? You aren't-"

"No, no. He's mixed up in something I'm concerned about."

She said, "I hope it involves arresting officers. He's slime, in my book. Which doesn't mean I'm against men who have shady pasts," she added hastily. "Just that I knew a girl who dated him back in his comedy period, and when they broke up she left town without saying see-you-later to any of us."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Something that made her feel crappy about herself, I'm guessing. A pal-o'-mine has a place in his building-a few floors below the penthouse he bought. She told me . . . Well, I know I'm spreading rumors. . . ."

"I'll keep it to myself, Delilah."

"Okay, she told me a couple of nights ago there was a woman screaming in the elevator. It was stuck between floors and this girl was really hollering. Like she was being tortured. My friend called the cops, but everything was hunky-dory by the time they got to the scene."

"What happened?"

"Don't know. They couldn't find any screaming lady. She was gone."

"No clue what happened?"

"I can ask my friend again if you want. Hey, you knew Brinker back in the day, right? What do you think of the guy?"

"I think people should stay away from him."

"Take your own advice, then, girlfriend. He definitely has some bad mojo." Delilah's call waiting beeped, and she said, "I gotta run, Nora. See you New Year's. And if you hear of a way to get me a Brinker Bra, you'll let me know, right?"

"Right."

We disconnected.

When I looked up from the phone, Michael came to the library door and leaned against it. Even in his socks, jeans and untucked shirt, I realized he managed to look like a thug with a hangover. I smiled.

Outside, the wind had come up again, and I could hear it rattling the windows. Night was gathering. In the library fireplace the embers snapped and glowed. All I needed was someone on the sofa with me to make the evening complete.

Despite my inviting smile, Michael stayed in the doorway. "The kid tells me that your man Brinker had a deal with the chauffeur."

I sat up quickly. "What kind of deal?"

"Brinker bought something-some invention the chauffeur had lying around."

"Does Orlando know that for sure?"

"He says the chauffeur told him he'd been given a lot of cash and he was going to buy a house in Ireland where the kid could visit."

"The Brinker Bra. Gallagher designed it, and he sold it to Brinker." I smiled at him. "How did you learn all that so fast?"

"During the commercials." Michael came to the sofa and nudged my foot with his knee.

I moved over to make space for him. "Is Orlando okay?"

"He fell asleep. Spike, too."