"If Andy was the shooter, true. And you can blow his alibi out of the water."

Sophie gave a resigned nod.

"So. The ball's in your court."

"She claims that Andy couldn't have done it, because when she got home, she found him on the couch. He was really sick. Apparently, he's been sick for months. She calls them 'spells.' "

"And he had a spell that night."

"Right."

"How convenient. Do you believe her? If she was willing to lie to the police, maybe she lied to you, too."

"I do believe her, Bram. But the problem is, she could be wrong about Andy. She didn't get home until close to nine. Who knows where he was before that?"

"Motive, Sophie. What was it?"

"What if he thought killing Loy would please his brother?"

"Kill a man to score points? That's twisted."

"Well, the whole family hated Loy for what he did to Valerie. Let's say Andy does the deed on the anniversary of Valerie's death, then makes a beeline to Bob's house to give him the good news. But Bob isn't pleased-he's horrified. He goes to the nearest phone to report the shooting. Andy walks in on him, finds that he's about to be turned into the police himself, so he shoots his brother. I know he adored him, but it could have been a simple gut reaction. Self-preservation. And then, he's so upset, he drives home. When Anika finds him, he's throwing up, sick as a dog."

"Makes sense."

"So, if I don't tell the police what I know, am I making a mistake?"

"An error of omission," said Bram, playing with her hand. "Intriguing. But, you know, if you don't tell what you know, it's possible you could be prosecuted for obstructing justice."

"Prosecuted?"

"You thought this was just a moral issue?"

"Well . . . yeah."

"It's not. You have a legal responsibility."

"Gee, you're full of good news this morning."

"Sorry, Soph. But you're right. I think you should call Al and tell him everything."

"But Anika begged me to keep quiet. And the truth is, I really can't see Andy as a murderer."

Bram glanced at his watch. "We'll have to continue this later."

"I am so confused."

"Me too," said Bram, rising from the couch. "But in my case, it's a way of life."

Across town, Chris had just settled into a bubble bath when she heard the phone ring. Phil's heavy work boots hit the terrazzo tile downstairs as he rushed to answer it.

Chris leaned back, a thought striking her like a thunderbolt. What if the call was from that man? Del? She had to know what he wanted from Phil. After toweling herself off, she slipped into her robe. She picked up the extension next to the bed, careful not to make a sound. But somehow, the phone must have clicked because all she heard on the line was silence. Then: "What was that?" asked Phil.

"What was what?" said the other man. Chris was positive it was Del.

"I heard something."

"You're awfully jumpy, pal. I wonder why."

More silence.

"When can we meet?" asked Phil.

"The sooner the better."

"Okay. Right now."

"Should I come to your place?"

"No. I'll meet you. You familiar with the university area? Prospect Park?"

"Yeah."

"In the park, next to the Witch's Hat. Half an hour."

"You better show," said Del. "Otherwise, what I've got goes straight to the cops."

Chris had no idea what the Witch's Hat was. If it was a restaurant, it wasn't one she'd heard of. She waited a few more seconds, but they'd obviously hung up.

From downstairs, she heard Phil's voice call, "Chris? I'm leaving. I'll call you later."

She tiptoed back to the bathroom. "Okay, honey."

"You take it easy today. We'll do something special tonight."

"Great."

The front door slammed.

She knew there was no use following him. By the time she got dressed, he'd be long gone.

Chris moved in front of the bathroom mirror. Her eye was almost swollen shut. It looked purple in the harsh light, and it hurt like hell. She felt guilty this morning because she'd been so stupid last night. She'd provoked her husband. It wasn't all his fault. She should have been able to tell he'd had a rough day. Dropping down on the edge of the tub, she started to cry. She couldn't help herself. Her picture-perfect life had been reduced to rubble.

An hour later, she was in the kitchen making herself a cup of coffee when the front doorbell sounded.

"Just a minute," she called, wondering who it was.

She'd spent most of the last hour going through her closet, trying to find something decent to wear tonight. Phil was totally right. Her clothes consisted of jeans, flannel shirts, T-shirts, tank tops, and one dress. She put the dress on, but she knew it wasn't good enough. She'd always felt so attractive, especially around Phil, but this morning, the weight of his words nearly crushed her. She was a grody mess. Everything was wrong. Her hair. Her clothes. Her skin. There was so much to change, it was overwhelming.

Pulling back the door, Chris found a delivery man outside. He was holding a huge bouquet of long-stemmed red roses.

"Delivery for Mrs. Philip Banks."

"That's me," said Chris.

"Sign here," he said, holding out a clipboard.

As soon as he was gone, she found the card in the mass of flowers.

"I'm sorry about last night," it said. It wasn't Phil's handwriting, but that was because he'd probably called the order in. "I love you more than life. Please forgive me and know that it will never happen again. You're my bright star, sweetheart. My only love." It was signed "Phil."

Chris hugged the flowers to her chest, smelled the sweet scent. Her mood changed instantly. She felt incredibly happy. Relieved. It was as if she'd entered a beautiful, fragrant meadow where the sun shone down on her and life was good. She and Phil would work things out. She was sure of it. She would learn how to dress, how to present the right image to the world. And whatever problem the man named Del presented, Phil would handle it. Chris relied on his strength. He was her husband, her silver fox. She would love him forever.

23.

During breakfast with his daughter, Bram did a lot of teeth gritting and forced smiles. Margie talked nonstop about Nathan and Elaine's forthcoming wedding. She thought Nathan was a hunk with great taste but periodic bouts of shortsightedness. Elaine, on the other hand, was "a Prada Fascist Diva Bitch." Margie said she got along with Prada Fascists just fine, but since Elaine had all the warmth of a walk-in freezer, the Diva Bitch part was a total pisser.

"She thinks she's, like, Diane Sawyer, and, if she gets her way, this wedding is going to be in the same financial ballpark as the British Royals. I'm tap-dancing as fast as I can to offer her lots of suggestions, and Carrie's doing her Glenda the Good Witch routine. We're, like, no, we don't think muted faux Asian would be a good look for the wedding dress. Nathan, well, he'd be happy with jeans, an Izod shirt, and a sweatshirt tied around his waist. So, he's like totally in another time warp. We settled on jewel colors for the wedding. Raw silk. I mean, it's December. Hel-lo! And furthermore, it's hardly Elaine's first walk down the aisle, so white is totally out."

By the time Bram and Margie said their good-byes, Bram was thrilled beyond belief to think that his wedding was long over and that he'd never have to think about all that blather again.

As he walked back to the De Gustabus room to see what was cooking, he passed Sheldon Larr, who was tacking an announcement on the gilt-framed bulletin board just outside the Wackenhut room. Bram stopped and peered over his shoulder. "Wow, you've collected nearly fifty thousand dollars." It was the reward money for finding Bob Fabian's murderer.

"Anything we can do, we must," said Sheldon, eyeing the page to make sure it was straight. "Horrible business. The authorities don't seem interested in what I think, but if they asked me, I'd give them an earful."

"About what?" asked Bram.

Sheldon turned around. "I'd tell them"-he looked over both shoulders-"to look no farther than this club. Find the man who had, shall we say"-he lowered his voice-"a great deal to lose if Bob didn't keep his mouth shut."

"Meaning what?"

Sheldon's eyes scanned the hallway. "What is a Rook, my dear?"

"A rook? Well, my wife tells me it's many things."

"Name one."

"A chess piece."

Sheldon frowned. "Name another."

"A bird."

"Exactly. And what do birds do?"

Bram was at a loss. "They . . . sleep in trees?"

"They fly, my dear. They fly." He winked, then limped away.

Bram stood for a moment, wondering what all that had been about. Shrugging, he headed for the room off the kitchen. As he came through the door, he saw that Lyle Boerichter was sitting at the table, his head leaning against his hand, staring into a cup of coffee. With his florid face and fleshy body, he looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. Bram knew a lot about heart attacks. He'd had one a while back. Bypass surgery had saved his life, but it was no fun- and that was an understatement.

Lyle looked up from his cup. "Baldric. Morning."

"Thought I'd see if you and Vince were dining on yak knuckle sausage for breakfast."

Lyle smiled. "No, we eat pretty normally, except for our Monday night meetings. You going to join us next time?"

"Haven't decided. Mind if I sit down?"

Lyle nodded to a chair. "The coffeepot's on."

Bram had already had three cups. "Thanks, but no thanks." Since Lyle was wearing his captain's uniform, Bram assumed he was flying this morning. "You headed somewhere?"

"LaGuardia, then on to Hartsfield-Jackson. I overnight in Atlanta, then back to New York, a stop in Pittsburgh, and home."

"You like flying the big jets?"

"It's my life," said Lyle. "The only thing I'm good at." When he leaned back, he moved like a man who'd been in a fight, as if every muscle hurt.

"Hard night?" asked Bram.

"No harder than usual." He glanced at the photo of Bob Fabian. It had been moved off the end of the table and set on the buffet.

"Still miss him?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"The night you had that last dinner with him, Vince said he was real upbeat."

Lyle sipped his coffee. "Yeah. Well, if we're gonna be precise, he left in an upbeat mood, but he was in a lousy mood when he arrived. There'd been some big snafu at the paper. I read about it in the Times Register a few days ago. Guy named Del Irazarian got nailed for lying in print. Between you and me, I think Bob was real disappointed in his brother. Kid named Gladstone. Said he should have caught the problems before they ended up on the front page."

"Sounds like Gladstone or Phil Banks are at the top of the police's list of suspects in Bob's death. You know Banks?"

"I've met him a couple times. My ex was a friend of his first wife's, so we went to the wedding. Vince tells me Phil just married Chris." He shook his head.

"You don't seem thrilled."

He grunted. "That guy's bad news. His first wife used to call my ex and complain about him all the time."

Vince pushed through the swinging door and smiled when he saw Bram. "Just can't stay away from us culinary mavericks, huh, Baldric?"

"Uncle Vincent?" Chris stuck her head inside the doorway. When she saw everyone in the room, her face sobered.