"In your lobby. On my cell." A humorless laugh. "Your doorman won't let me up. He thinks I'm a stalker."

"Put him on."

There were some fumbling noises, and then George, the nighttime security guard, came on the line.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Halstead. I didn't think--"

"It's okay, George. He's a colleague. I understand your concern. It's obvious he's been drinking.

But I can handle him. So send him up."

"All right." George didn't sound happy, but an instant later the buzzer announced that he'd admitted Rick.

Taylor climbed out of bed, grabbed her fleece robe, and yanked it on, belting it at the waist. Rick sounded like he was at the breaking point. She wasn't sure if anything she said would help, but she had to try.

Running her fingers through her hair, she went to the front door and waited for the knock, checking through the peephole to make sure it was Rick before she unbolted and opened the door. "Hi."

He was leaning against the door frame, his overcoat hanging open, his eyes gla.s.sy and half shut, his face flushed. The stench of booze was so strong, Taylor nearly gagged. He reeked.

"I'm sorry about b'fore," he announced, taking an unsteady step into the foyer. "I didn't mean to tear into you. It just hurts so G.o.dd.a.m.ned much."

"Come in and sit down. I'll brew some coffee."

"No coffee." Rick waved it away. "I just wanted to ... I don't know what I wanted. For you to wave a wand and make it go away. You have that effect on people." He stared at her through tortured, bloodshot eyes. "It's over, Taylor. Everything's over. Marilyn, the kids, ev'rything."

"Rick, please." She led him inside and urged him onto a kitchen stool. "Let me make you some coffee."

"I'm not thirsty. Not unless you have Jack Daniel's."

Taylor propped her elbows on the counter and faced him. "I don't know where things stand with Marilyn. But it'll never be over with the kids. They're your children. And they're crazy about you."

"Marilyn will get full custody." Tears filled his eyes. "She said so and she's right. I've been a mess.

I drink. I'm depressed. I sleep all weekend. Sometimes I'm so out of it, I can't focus on what the kids are saying. I've become a lousy father. Marilyn's lawyer will tell that to the judge. And he'll take them away from me. I can't survive that."

"You're getting way ahead of yourself. You're a fantastic father. You just happen to be going through a rough patch. Depression requires treatment. You'll see someone and get that treatment. It'll change everyone's perspective--yours, your family's, and the judge's."

"What I need is to crawl into a bottle and never come out."

"That's the last thing you need."

Rick rubbed his temples. "And the last thing you need is for me to dump on you like this." Abruptly, his head came up, a flicker of rational awareness crossing his face. "I'm a jerk. You must've jumped outta your skin when your phone rang at this time of night."

"It's all right," Taylor said simply. "It was you."

"Yeah, but it could have been that crank caller. Has he called back?"

"Thankfully, no."

"Good." Rick frowned, verbalizing his thoughts as they tumbled into his head. "Kevin's checking out Romeo. That lawyer you're falling for is teaching you self-defense. It's gonna be okay. You've got a lot of people looking out for you."

"So do you."

For a moment Rick didn't answer. He just stared at the floor. When he looked up, there was such futility in his eyes that Taylor wanted to call Marilyn herself, shake some sense into her. "I'm tired, Taylor," he said quietly, shoving himself to his feet. "Tired of fighting. Tired of trying to keep it together." He made an attempt to b.u.t.ton his coat, then abandoned it. "I'm gonna get going. I need sleep."

"Yes, you do." Taylor frowned, uneasy about Rick's state of mind. "Do you want me to call Marilyn?

I could tell her you're crashing on my sofa tonight."

A hollow laugh. "Right. She'd probably use that against me, too. She'd twist the story and tell her lawyer I'm s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g another woman."

"She knows better than that."

"What she knows and what she does are two different things." Rick reached over, squeezed Taylor's arm. "Thanks for listening." He headed for the door.

"Rick." She followed him, taking hold of his sleeve. "You've had too much to drink."

"Then it's good I'm not driving." He saw her concern and forced a smile. "Hey, I won't even walk. I'll catch the subway to Times Square. The number seven leaves there for Flushing every twenty minutes.

I'll be home in less than an hour. See? I'm more than sober enough to get where I need to go." He patted her cheek. "Go back to bed. Things'll be better tomorrow."

3:25 A.M.

TIMES SQUARE SUBWAY STATION, NEW YORK CITY.

The d.a.m.ned subway train was taking forever.

Rick paced around on the platform, rubbing his arms and trying to stave off the cold. The walk from Taylor's apartment to the subway entrance had left his body with a chill that wouldn't go away.

He barely remembered the ride from Seventy-second Street to Times Square, or the walk downstairs to the lower level. But here he was.

The platform was practically deserted, courtesy of the hour and the subzero temperatures. Normal people were home in their beds when it was 3 a.m. and minus seven degrees. The only other gluttons for punishment around him--not counting the poor vagrants who'd come in to avoid dying of frostbite--were four or five stoned teenagers and some guy in a hooded parka, sitting on a bench with his face buried in a book.

How anyone could have the wherewithal to read under these conditions was beyond Rick.

With a rumble, the train finally pulled into the station and stopped. Rick got on. The car he'd chosen was empty. He dropped into a seat and folded his arms across his chest to stay warm. The guy with the parka got on behind him. He made his way to the rear, stopping near the door leading to the next car, then slumped into the seat. His head was still shoved in that book.

The amount of booze Rick had consumed was getting to him. He was starting to develop a ma.s.sive headache and a lurching stomach. He sat very still, staring straight out the window across from him.

That worked until the train left the station. Then his stomach began pitching along with the motion of the subway car, more so as they picked up speed. Okay, watching the underground world go whizzing by was a definite no-no. He felt like he was about to puke.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn't help.

Gagging, he shifted forward in his seat, fighting his body's untimely protest. He was not going to vomit on the subway floor.

Apparently, the guy in the parka wasn't so sure.

He jumped to his feet, shutting his book and making a beeline for the connecting door. He pulled on the handle a couple of times, then started cursing under his breath when the door wouldn't budge. He yanked again, becoming visibly agitated when it didn't give, like he was frantic to get out of there. Not that Rick could blame him. The poor jerk was alone in a subway car with a gagging drunk, whom he probably expected to barf any minute.

Rick took pity on him. Besides, a short walk might help the nausea more than a long sit. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed onto the nearest pole and pulled himself up. Then he weaved his way down to the door. The guy's hooded back was to him, and the parka was so big and bulky that it was impossible to make out anything beneath it. Still, Rick could sense the guy tense up as he approached.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna mug you," Rick muttered. "I'm just gonna help you get away from me."

He wedged himself around front, reaching for the door and giving the handle a good hard pull.

To his surprise, he met with no resistance at all. The door just slid open.

"It must've been stuck," he murmured, half to himself. He started to backtrack, maneuvering himself so the other guy could pa.s.s. "Go ahead. Problem solved."

The guy in the parka blocked his retreat. "You're right. It is."

He shoved Rick through the doorway and, with both hands, propelled him over the safety gate that linked the cars, sending him plunging to the tracks below.

Rick's scream was swallowed up by the roar of the train as it continued on its undisturbed path to Flushing.

CHAPTER 16.

FEBRUARY 5.

2:30 P.M.

The message from Jack. Taylor knew there was something wrong the minute she saw the pink note.

He never called her at school. If there was something he wanted to speak privately with her about, he left her a voice mail at home, asking her to come in early or stay late.

The message was short and terse: come directly to WVNY when school is out.

She arrived in record time. A knot had formed in the pit of her stomach.

She took one look at Jack's ashen expression when she walked into his office, and knew the knot was only going to worsen.

"Taylor, sit down." Jack gestured toward the upholstered settee. He waited for her to perch at the edge of the cushion, then came around to stand beside her. "There's something I need to tell you.

It's about Rick."

Oh, no. No.

"What is it?" she asked in a wooden tone, certain it was a nightmarish replay of the tragic news about Steph.

"There was an accident on the number seven train in the middle of the night. A man who'd had too much to drink lost his balance when he was walking between cars." A hard swallow. "He fell onto the tracks, and under the train. He was killed instantly. It was Rick."

Taylor's throat was working, and her hands were clasped so tightly together she could scarcely feel them. "Are they sure?"

This wasn't easy on Jack. He was trying to spare her the gory details. He looked violently ill. "Even though the body was mangled, the description, the bits and pieces of ID from his wallet, the clothing samples, and, most of all, the wedding ring--they were Rick's. They'll run a DNA test to confirm, but they're sure."

She bowed her head, everything inside her going cold and still. "Tell me everything."

"Rick never came home last night. Marilyn waited until the kids left for school, then started making calls. No one had seen him. She called here around eight. She was pretty freaked out. I told her that Rick left the station right after your show last night. Kevin was in my office when I took the call. He added that Rick had been in bad shape when he left, and was probably heading for a bar, not home. Marilyn jumped on that. She called some local bars, even a few hotels. We did the same. One bar owner remembered seeing him in there around one. Nothing after that."

"I can fill in the blanks," Taylor managed. "Rick came to my apartment a little after two. He stayed about a half hour. He'd been drinking-- a lot. He was an emotional wreck. He felt as if his entire world was falling apart."

"Yeah, Marilyn told me. But, divorce or not, she still cared about the guy. She was frantic. When she got nowhere, she called the police and reported Rick missing. The precinct checked it out. Marilyn's description matched that of an accident victim they'd located around four a.m. She went down to the police station and identified the personal articles I mentioned. She called me from there. She was obviously in shock. I don't even remember what I said to her--" Jack's voice broke. "Anyway, that's all I know. What happened at your place ?"

"Rick said he wanted to apologize for being so surly before the show," Taylor murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks. "What he really wanted was for me to offer him a shred of hope. I tried." She raised her head. "Has Marilyn told the kids yet?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't spoken to her since she left the police station. She was on her way down to the morgue. She had to identify the remains. Jesus, what do I say to her?"

"There aren't any right words. Believe me, I know. All you can do is be there for her and the kids in whatever ways they need." Taylor felt like she was standing outside herself, talking to Jack as a third person; an objective psychologist.

"I'll call Marilyn," she heard herself say. "I've lost someone I love through a violent death. I can listen.

I can help her talk to the police. If nothing else, I can give her the name of an excellent grief counselor who deals with kids. Those poor children are going to need it."

She rose, heading toward the door. It was happening again. Another death. Another senseless, premature loss. Another funeral.

Another situation where Taylor felt responsible.

Maybe if she'd said the right words, insisted that Rick stay the night on her sofa, forced him to think about everything he had to live for ... maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe he'd be alive.

"Taylor?" Jack's voice stopped her. "Take the night off. I'll run one of your pretaped shows during your time slot."

She paused in the doorway, turned to face Jack. "What about Kevin? He must be a mess."

"He is. I sent him home. Sally's a great intern. She can easily handle a taped program. And Dennis can do the audio." Jack cleared his throat. "I've got the bases covered. Don't worry. Just go."

Taylor nodded. "Thanks, Jack. I'll check in with you later."

She left the building and just stood outside, oblivious to the people, to the traffic, to the cold. The chill she felt was from within, and not even frigid temperatures could compare with that. Without thinking, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed directory a.s.sistance. When the operator answered, she said, "I need the number of Harter, Randolph and Collins."

Reed was reading a brief when his secretary buzzed him.

He punched the intercom b.u.t.ton. "Yes, Cathy?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Weston. But Taylor Halstead is on the phone. She's pretty insistent about speaking with you. She says it's important. And she sounds upset."

The brief was forgotten. "Put her through."

Fifteen minutes later, Cathy showed Taylor into Reed's office. He took one look at her sheet white face and trembling hands, and said to his secretary, "Cathy, that'll be all. And no interruptions. None."

"Yes, Mr. Weston."

Once the door was shut and they were alone, Reed walked over, clasped Taylor's shoulders. "What is it? You sounded horrible on the phone. You look even worse. Are you hurt? Did something happen at Dellinger?"