"Fat chance." Brinker reached out with his free hand and pinched my nipple so hard I cried out. "See? Aren't we going to have a good time?"

I tried to choke down a second cry of pain.

"You like it rough." He rested his thumb against the bruise on my face. "Don't you?"

I twisted my face away from his fingers. "You're sick."

"Tell me how sick," he coaxed. "How sick do you want me to be?"

"You pushed her to do it, Brinker. Maybe you didn't hire Kitty's killer yourself, but you did everything to make Sabria your puppet. You coerced her."

"And she loved every minute. Same as you. I'm just sorry we didn't get to see the bitch die. That would have been the film to watch."

Suddenly Hemorrhoid screamed. Spike had come back to life and latched his jaws around Hemorrhoid's nose, snarling wildly. Hemorrhoid curled into a tighter ball, batting at my dog.

At that moment the elevator doors parted on Brinker's floor. Hemorrhoid tried to escape Spike by crawling halfway out of the elevator. But he made it only partway and lay there, fighting off the dog and blocking the elevator doors open.

Brinker cursed and tried to kick Hemorrhoid out of the way. Then he stepped over Hem's body and onto the hardwood floor.

Instantly, a horrific explosion of gunfire ripped through the loft, accompanied by high-spirited orchestral music and Mel Gibson's voice yelling, "Get down, get down!"

"What the hell?"

Brinker's foot hit a lake of olive oil on the floor, and he executed a desperate pirouette before crashing flat-out on his stomach. His camera skittered on the floor. In the next instant, Rawlins popped up from behind the kitchen counter and began throwing the remains of Hemorrhoid's cake directly into Brinker's face. Handful after handful, he pelted Brinker, keeping him pinned to the floor like a soldier without a foxhole. The terrifying sound of gunfire erupted from the television again, volume on the highest, earsplitting setting.

A heartbeat later, Orlando leaped into the elevator, headed straight for Sabria. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he held aloft the wriggling body of a life-sized snake.

Sabria shrieked. I elbowed her stomach, and she lifted her weight off of me.

She made a break for the apartment, hit the oiled floor and skated only briefly before belly flopping onto the hardwood. Orlando threw the fake snake on top of her. She screamed as it writhed over her.

"Come on!" Orlando shouted at Rawlins, already pressing the down button. "Make a break for it!"

Grabbing a Brinker Bra, Rawlins slid his way through the oil and reached Brinker. He seized the man's hand and-quick as a calf roper-whipped the bra around Brinker's wrist. Brinker spat out a mouthful of cake, but not before Rawlins grabbed his other hand and snapped the bra around it, too. As if captured by handcuffs, Brinker tried to yank his way out of the bra, but couldn't. Rawlins dashed for the elevator. He avoided the oil on the floor and leaped over Hemorrhoid's thrashing body.

"Orlando," I said. "Grab the camera."

Orlando dashed out and scooped up Brinker's camera with the confession tape inside.

"Spike!" Orlando called, scrambling back to me.

Spike broke off his attack and leaped onto the elevator at precisely the moment Rawlins did. The elevator door began to close. Mel Gibson sprayed the room with covering gunfire, and we made our escape.

As the elevator descended one more time, Rawlins and Orlando struggled to untie me. They were encrusted with cake and fragrant oil, and both talking at once.

"The oil on the floor was my idea," Orlando said.

"And I put the video on," Rawlins said. "I knew we'd need to scare 'em."

"We couldn't find the stairs."

"We had to use what we could find."

"I brought the snake from the car."

"Aunt Nora, are you okay?"

At last Rawlins managed to unfasten the tie that bound me to the elevator wall. "Yes," I said, finding my voice at last. "I'm okay. Thanks to you. Thank you, Rawlins. Oh, thank you, Orlando."

Orlando touched my elbow. "Are you crying?"

Rawlins put his arm around me. "Are you going to faint?"

The elevator arrived in the lobby. The doors opened.

The three of us screamed and grabbed each other.

A platoon of police officers stood outside the elevator, all pointing guns at us. Behind them stood my sister Libby, spraddle-legged and gasping for breath.

"Wait!" she shouted. "That's my sister!"

"They're upstairs," I said. "Three of them, on the top floor. They've got evidence on videotapes, and they're going to destroy them. You've got to hurry-"

The police officers broke formation and scattered, leaving the boys to help me off the elevator and over to Libby.

She said, "I know I wasn't supposed to call the police, but when I saw Sabria and Hemorrhoid arrive, I knew Brinker wasn't far behind. Are you okay?"

Outside, the street was flashing with police cars. As Libby helped me to the end of the sidewalk, two more city police cruisers roared up to the building entrance. The first one rocked to a stop, and officers jumped out. Two ran into the building. A third rushed over to help us. Spike barked at him.

But Libby flashed her most inviting smile and said, "Hi, there."

Chapter 17.

Two torturously long hours later, when the police were finished with us, Libby took the boys home. She dropped me on a city corner. I dashed into the Pendergast building and flapped my ID at the security guard. He waved me in with a called, "Happy New Year!"

If the trip to the Intelligencer offices hadn't been twelve floors, I'd have taken the stairs. I never wanted to see the inside of an elevator again. But I braved it out of necessity and rode upward.

I found Kitty's desk topsy-turvy-a mess of invitations, notes and old clippings of her own columns, all left in a jumble by police searches and who knew what else. I pushed it all aside and sat down.

I let out a long, tense sigh, closed my eyes and gathered my wits. My hands no longer trembled, perhaps thanks to the doughnut Libby had bought-one of the dozen she purchased at a coffee shop. I felt considerably better. But I opened my eyes cautiously. I almost expected Kitty herself to come storming around a corner to order me out of her chair.

"How does it feel?"

I jumped, still a nervous wreck. "Stan! I didn't hear you."

"Sorry." The lanky editor came over and perched on the edge of the desk. "I hear you broke Kitty's murder case."

"You heard already?"

He smiled. "News indeed travels fast. The guys downstairs are frantic for details. You want to give them an exclusive interview?"

"To tell the truth? No. Not tonight."

He nodded. "Your prerogative. They can get what they need from the cops. All three were arrested?"

"Sabria for hiring the hit man. Charges against Brinker and Hemmings Lamb will be sorted out. I'm here to write Kitty's column."

"Ah." He checked his watch. "I was starting to think you were going to blow your first big deadline."

"Not a chance."

Stan smiled and folded his long arms across his chest. "You ready to write about Kitty? Warts and all?"

"She was a bitch," I admitted. "But in her own way, she changed the social climate of the city, Stan. Pedigree was the only thing that used to matter. Kitty made it acceptable for rich people to get their pictures in the paper for charitable giving, and the giving only got bigger."

Stan said, "Sounds as if you're softening your opinion of Kitty."

"I learned from her. I didn't always enjoy it, but she taught me a lot."

"If you write that, it'll be a great first column, Nora." He stood up from my desk. "I hope there will be a lot more. Do your best work, and I'll do my part to see that you get this desk on a permanent basis."

"Thanks, Stan."

"But hurry up," he said cheerfully, checking his watch. "Aren't you throwing a party tonight?"

"You heard that, too?" I laughed.

"Who hasn't? Half the city's driving out to Bucks County tonight."

"Are you coming?"

"I might." He winked. "Get to work, kid. Make me proud."

As he strolled away, I fired up Kitty's computer and looked at the time. My guests were just now arriving at Blackbird Farm. With luck, Libby had gotten there in time to play hostess.

I wrote about the last time I'd seen Kitty-dressed to the nines and waving her invitation overhead like a triumphant flag to gain entrance to a celebrity bachelor auction where over a million dollars would be raised for a cultural institution. And half of that million would be raked in because she promoted the auction in her column and would picture the handsome winners when it was all over. In her long career, Kitty had helped raise perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars, and along the way she'd taught important life lessons to a lot of us. Like how to spot a real class act. And how to spot a phony. To separate the givers from the takers. I thought I knew the people in my social circle, but Kitty had forced me to see them in a new light.

And although she wrote with a pen dipped in poison, she'd been trying to do the right thing by exposing Brinker's appropriation of the bra that Gallagher designed. She'd been championing the little guy, who didn't realize he'd been taken to the cleaners by a swindler.

Not a bad legacy for a girl from the rough side of the tracks.

I polished up my phrases, double-checked to make sure the paragraphs expressed what I truly felt, then pressed "send." My first column whisked its way to Stan's office. I hoped it passed muster. If it didn't, the Philadelphia Intelligencer could hire somebody more deserving to take Kitty's place.

But me, I had a party to throw.

I washed my face in the bathroom and was glad to see my bruise was nearly gone. A little more makeup, and I'd be presentable. I rode the elevator to the lobby. Reed was waiting for me outside the Pendergast building. As he opened the back door of the town car, he handed me a bag.

"Your sister sent this," he reported.

"Reed!" I was so touched by the extra time he'd taken to bring me a change of clothing that I stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you so much. And happy New Year."

"Yeah," he said. "Same to you. Hurry up and get in. If I don't get you home soon, somebody's going to bust my ass."

With hope leaping inside me, I asked, "Have you spoken with Michael?"

Reed shook his head.

I put on my makeup with the interior lights on, then turned off the light and changed my clothing in the dark backseat as we sped through the night to Bucks County. The roads were clear and dry, and Reed might have driven at a slightly higher speed than his usual conservative crawl.

Parked cars lined the road for a quarter of a mile before we reached Blackbird Farm. My driveway was barely passable. Reed threaded the town car past the other vehicles to reach the back of the house.

"Reed," I said as he pulled the car around to the back porch, "please come inside with me."

"I got places to go for myself, you know. I don't need to go to your old party."

"I need someone to lean on," I said, "in case it's a disaster."

"You going to faint?"

"I might," I said ominously.

He sighed and gave me his arm.

"How do I look?"

He glanced down at the clothes Libby had sent for me to wear-a midnight-blue cashmere sweater and satin lounging pajama trousers. They were both more to her taste than mine, but definitely party clothes. The sweater revealed my bare shoulders. The Brinker Bra performed astonishingly well.

"You look . . . pretty," Reed said.

Libby met us at the back door. She was decked out in a sheer blouse that completely revealed her Brinker Bra in all its glory. Her smile was wide and delighted. "Happy New Year!" she crowed. "Don't you look fabulous! Have a glass of champagne!"

"I have champagne?" I asked.

"Lexie sent some cases this afternoon."

I accepted the flute she extended, but didn't have the strength to lift it to my lips. I handed it off to Reed. The house rocked with live music I could hear all the way from the living room along with the raised voices of at least a hundred people. Some were actually singing.

"How about some caviar?" Libby asked.

"Lexie sent caviar, too?"