"Oh, yeah, I forgot. What are you and the c'mish working on? Heard you went to see someone on Blackwell's Island yesterday. Everyone is being so closemouthed."

Francesca stared coldly. Undoubtedly Kurland had bribed an officer and knew far more than he was letting on. "If we wished for you to know something, there would be a news conference. Good day."

She turned away, but he leaped between her and the elevator. "What happened at Gallery Moore? Why is Daniel Moore upstairs? An' how come I heard this gossip that you missed your wedding because of Moore?" He grinned then. "I also heard that Calder Hart isn't in a forgiving mood. Guess the wedding's off, huh?"

She stared unhappily at him. She wondered if any of Hart's staff would dare to speak to a newsman.

"I even heard you're not a welcome guest over there," he said.

Sometimes, the truth was the best policy. This was not one of those times. "Then you have heard wrong. Now, if you will excuse me?"

Kurland stepped aside and Francesca hurried into the elevator. She hit the button for the third floor, trying to appear indifferent and even nonchalant. As the elevator began its ascent, Kurland grinned at her. "You should really try Joe's," he said. "Dinner's on me. Anytime."

Francesca ignored him, but she felt flushed. He was an annoying man. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by insinuating that she and Hart remained closer than they actually were.

A moment later she stepped out of the cage and saw Bragg standing in the corridor, speaking with Chief Farr. Her tension was instantaneous. She had no reason to suspect Farr of any foul play, even if he had been investigating the theft of her portrait when the police had not known about it. But it still bothered her that he had been on the scene with his men before she and Bragg had arrived at the gallery Saturday night. Once again, she couldn't help thinking that he was such a big, striking man.

Then she shook herself free of any suspicion. She believed that the thief had removed the portrait shortly after her escape from the gallery-before she had seen Bragg and revealed all that had happened.

Both men fell silent as she approached. Farr nodded politely. Francesca tried not to bristle and managed a smile in return. She was very glad that Rose was not seeing this man as a client. "Is Mr. Moore here?"

"He is in the conference room. Mrs. Moore is in my office," Bragg said.

Francesca was surprised that Moore's wife had been brought downtown, but Farr said, "She insisted on coming with him."

Francesca hesitated. She wished a word with Bragg alone. He glanced at the chief and said, "We'll be right in, Chief."

Farr grunted and walked off toward the conference room, which was just down the hall. "Well?" Bragg asked.

"Did Marsha Moore recognize the chief?" she asked.

"No, Francesca, she did not even blink upon first seeing him."

She turned to him. Farr was now out of sight. "Marsha Moore said that a big, dark man was loitering outside their flat that night, waiting for Daniel. She also saw him at the gallery a few days before. Farr isn't dark, although he is big. But it was not Farr, as Marsha did not recognize him. However, Bill Randall is tall and he is dark."

"You are slipping," Bragg said, smiling warmly now. "She described the loiterer as big and dangerous."

She had slipped. "It wasn't Farr. But I don't trust him at all. I don't like his involvement in this case."

"Neither do I, but it is too late to get him off the case. Let's hope that Randall is the one who paid off Moore to use his gallery on Saturday, and let's assume he returned for the stolen portrait after you escaped." He took her arm, lowering his voice. "There has been no activity at the Randall home this afternoon, Francesca. I have asked the detail that is watching the house to gather up the family photographs."

That was an excellent idea, she thought. "We can show his photograph to Mrs. Moore."

"Yes, we can."

How she hoped there would be a positive identification! Then Francesca quickly told him about her conversation with Dawn. Bragg said, "Finding Marceaux might be moot, Francesca. Hopefully, Randall is our man and we will soon apprehend him. I look forward to receiving the visitors' logs from Warden Coakley."

"So do I," Francesca said.

Bragg guided her to the conference room door, which was ajar, but paused once more outside it. "There is news. It isn't good. I just got a wire from the warden of the Blackwell's Island Asylum. Mary wasn't transferred there."

Francesca halted in her tracks. Mary had escaped. "So Mary vanished from Bellevue Hospital into thin air?"

"I doubt she vanished. And I think we both know who helped her escape."

They stared at each other. Mary could not be their thief. She had been in custody in April, when the portrait was stolen. "If only we knew when she escaped," Francesca said in a whisper.

And Bragg, of course, was reading her mind. "Mary is a small woman, but I believe she could have taken that portrait down from the wall with sheer adrenaline."

If Bill Randall had stolen it, he had gained an accomplice, but how recently? Francesca wondered. Bill would have stolen the portrait from Sarah's studio, acting alone. But had Mary helped him lock Francesca in the gallery and retrieve the portrait on Saturday? She was chilled. Mary was deranged and that made her even more frightening than her brother.

Bragg gestured. Hating the idea that Mary was on the loose, Francesca stepped into the conference room.

A long table dominated it. Inside, the light was pale and yellow. Daniel Moore was clad as if for a holiday in a darker sack coat and pale trousers. He was seated as they walked in, Farr standing nearby, Inspector Newman seated across from him. Newman, a rotund man, was doodling on a notepad. A uniformed officer stood by the door in case he might think to escape. Moore leaped to his feet.

Francesca smiled. "Hello, Mr. Moore."

"I am outraged," he said. "I have done nothing wrong!"

Bragg walked over to him and pushed him back into his seat. "Really? Lying to the police-even mere obfuscation-is a felony, sir."

Moore blanched. "I haven't lied!"

"Not only do we have your financial records, we have witnesses who saw you at the gallery last Saturday morning. Yet you told me on Saturday night that you had not been to the gallery since you closed it on Friday for summer hours," Bragg said.

"You have witnesses?" Moore was incredulous.

Francesca knew that the children's testimony would never hold up in a court of law, but the woman's surely would. "Apparently you were not alone, Mr. Moore. Would you mind explaining this discrepancy?"

Moore stood again. "Very well. I went to my gallery that morning, but only because there was a leak in the bathroom faucet! A plumber was with me. That is not a crime!"

Francesca glanced at Bragg, who said, "And who is this plumber, Moore? Obviously he will have to corroborate your story."

"My story? But I have done nothing wrong. Someone broke into my gallery and imprisoned Miss Cahill there. I had nothing to do with her abduction or the stolen portrait!"

Francesca glanced at Farr. He smiled at her. She turned quickly away. "Would you mind explaining why a deposit of one thousand dollars was made last Thursday into your East River Savings Bank account?"

He gasped. "That was from the sale of a painting!"

Francesca realized that was an entirely credible answer. Bragg said, "Then you will show us the receipt?"

Moore said, "Of course."

Bragg nodded at Newman, who lumbered to his feet. "Escort Mr. Moore to his gallery, please. Bring back his receipts-all of them."

Farr's eyes glittered.

Francesca turned. "Don't we need a warrant?"

"I will arrange for one immediately," Bragg said.

"And what about my wife?" Moore asked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"You can wait for her in the lobby," Bragg said.

Moore cried out. "What do you want with Marsha?"

"We have a few questions for her, that is all," Francesca said. He was as nervous as a very guilty man.

She preceded Bragg from the conference room. Before opening the door to his office, she said, "Do you really think to get a warrant after the fact?"

He smiled. "There won't be any receipts, Francesca. I feel certain that he was paid off by Randall, or whoever originally stole that painting, for the use of his gallery. I don't believe him a thief, just an accessory to the theft and your abduction. I can smell the guilt on him."

"I happen to think you are right," she said.

He reached past her to open the door. It did not occur to her to move out of his way, and his arm brushed her. Instead of stepping back, she smiled at him. He smiled back, then pushed open the door for her. About to walk past him and inside, Francesca hesitated.

Farr was coming down the hall. If he had noticed anything, he gave no sign. He stared at the floor as he passed them.

She felt as if they had been caught in a compromising position. Of course, Bragg had only opened the door for her. However, they were so obviously close. Neither one stood on propriety.

"Are you all right?" Bragg asked, his gaze searching.

She met his warm amber regard. She wanted to tell him that she was becoming worried because she hadn't spoken with Hart since last night. "I am fine." She cleared her throat and walked into his office. He followed, closing the door behind them.

Marsha Moore was sitting before his desk, clutching a handkerchief. Her eyes were red from crying.

She leaped up. "He is a good man, really."

"What aren't you telling us?" Francesca asked in her kindest manner. She clasped the woman's shoulder.

"He hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Mr. Moore is allowed to lease out his space to whomever he chooses, Mrs. Moore, so you are right about that. It is also true that he is not responsible for the fact that someone lured me to his gallery and trapped me inside."

"Then why are we here?" she cried fearfully.

"If he knew what was about to happen and was paid for his participation, then he is an accessory to my abduction," Francesca said, rather exaggerating the facts. A good defense attorney would argue that she hadn't actually been abducted.

"And he might even be accused of fencing stolen goods," Bragg said. They both knew that mere knowledge of a crime was not a criminal offense.

"Of course he didn't know that you were locked up, and he would never deal in stolen paintings!" she cried, ghastly white. "We already have so many problems. Dear Lord, we hardly need any more!"

"Then why are you so frightened?" Francesca asked.

"We are trying so hard to make ends meet. It isn't easy these days. But you wouldn't know about that, would you, Miss Cahill?"

"Who approached your husband and asked to lease the gallery for a single day?" Bragg asked firmly.

She looked frantically at him. "I don't know! He doesn't tell me anything. He keeps me in the dark, he does. It wasn't always that way." She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

Francesca felt sorry for her. "Mrs. Moore, I am certain that your husband had no idea what would happen when he leased out his space. I am also convinced that he is being threatened not to reveal the name of the man who paid him to use his gallery on Saturday. If he will simply tell us the truth, there will not be any charges. I will make certain of it."

Marsha stared tearfully at her now.

Bragg came up to them. "I won't press charges, Mrs. Moore, nor will the D.A., if your husband is an innocent victim of this thief, as Miss Cahill is."

"He never tells me anything," Marsha breathed.

There was a knock on the door and Bragg went to get it. Francesca didn't move. "I know how worried you are. Are you certain he didn't tell you that he meant to lease his space out for a single day?" she tried.

Before Marsha could respond, Bragg returned. He was holding a framed photograph in his hand, and he gave it to Marsha. Francesca instantly recognized Bill Randall, standing arm in arm with his small, pale sister and mother. "Is this the man you saw outside the gallery and outside your flat?"

She stared. "No. That is not him."

Francesca started. But that was impossible!

Bragg was as incredulous.

"Are you sure?" Francesca cried.

"I am certain. I have never seen that man before."

FRANCESCA WAS SUDDENLY aware of just how tired she was. It had been a very long day, but she had yet to manage an investigation where the hours weren't exhausting. Pausing on the threshold of the front hall, she asked, "Is anyone home, Francis?" She wouldn't mind having the house to herself. She could curl up in her father's study with a hot meal and a glass of wine, and make notes about the case.

Of course, what she really wanted to do was freshen up and call on Hart. Shouldn't he be told that Bill Randall might not be the thief? That Mary had escaped? She trembled, imagining Hart's reaction to that bit of news. Maybe he would cease blaming himself for their current predicament.

In that moment, she decided she would rush upstairs, wash her face, apply rouge and perfume, and go over to Hart's. Sometimes, one must simply take the bull by the horns. "Mr. and Mrs. Cahill have gone out to supper. They will be at the Metropolitan Club, if you wish to join them," Francis said dutifully. "But, Miss Cahill, you have a caller. She has been waiting here for the past hour."

Francesca was dismayed. "Is Sarah Channing here?" She turned toward the salon on her left as Francis closed the front door. Then she froze as a woman got up from the gold brocade sofa where she had been seated.

Rose Cooper hurried forward. "We have to talk-and I don't have much time before I have to get back."

"I'll send you downtown in a cab," Francesca said quickly, surprised. Taking her arm, she guided Rose back into the blue-and-gold salon. Recovering from her surprise, she closed the door and faced her. "I am so surprised that you would come all this way to see me, Rose." She saw that Rose had been served tea and biscuits. "What is wrong? You seem worried."

"I am worried!" Rose said, her green eyes flashing. "Francesca, this is about your portrait."

Francesca went still.

Rose paced, casting an odd, sidelong look at her. "I lied to you. And I am so sorry. You helped me so much when Daisy was murdered. Last night I dreamed about her. She was so beautiful!" Tears filled Rose's eyes. "When I awoke, it was as if we had really visited. I knew she would be angry at me for lying to you, when you are always so damn kind."

"What did you lie about?"

Rose hesitated. "I knew about your portrait. Daisy told me about it."

Her thoughts raced wildly. How had Daisy known about the portrait? "Daisy told you about my portrait?"

"Yes."