Spencer felt as if he had cotton in his mouth and cotton for a brain. 'Don't worry about the time of death,' Spencer said groggily. 'We know when she died. Put down between one-ten and one-thirty in the morning on Wednesday, November twenty-fourth, 1993.'

'You're sure about this?'

'Yes. Last time someone saw her alive was fifty yards from the scene of death at one-oh-five.'

'I see. She could've died much later.'

'No. She was completely naked and it was cold. She would've turned around and come back home. I'm certain she never returned from the woods.'

'Yes, you're right, you're right. Fine. Between one-ten and one-thirty it is.' Innis scribbled something on the manila envelope. 'By the way. It wasn't human hair under her nails. Probably dog hair.'

'Oh,' said Spencer. He was too tired even to be disappointed. 'Just do the blood work for us, okay?' It was too much for him at five-thirty in the morning. He had been up on his feet for twenty-one hours. It felt like a hundred and twenty-one.

Spencer went home to Hanover. It was still dark out, but the sky had taken on the metallic hue of a winter sunrise. Spencer let himself in and looked at his chair, but it was too late, or too early, to think about sitting down in it. Too late, or too early, to eat or to drink whiskey. Spencer took off his big brown boots and his socks, and then looked in his empty refrigerator. He wanted to close the curtains, but it was morning. He went into the bedroom, wanting to think about everything, wanting to think about the blood under the long red nails, wanted to think about the knee marks, about Kristina, about her letters, about Howard, whom she had married, and Albert, whom she had loved, and Red Leaves House, which was probably going to end up with her fortune. Instead, he fell on the bed and was asleep in an instant.

At ten-thirty Saturday morning, Spencer jumped up from the bed as if his military commander were walking through a barracks inspection and he had been caught napping. Then he realized the phone was ringing.

Will was calling to see if he was coming in today.

'I'm in the middle of a murder investigation. Of course I'm coming in.'

'Okay. Because I'm already at the station. I'm only going to be here for a little while longer. Innis faxed us a copy of the death certificate. Very interesting.'

'Yeah, I'd say interesting.'

'Rules out a rapist.'

'You could say that.'

'We better check out those kids again. Don't you think?'

'Absolutely,' said Spencer.

'Have you seen the papers, Trace?'

'No, you know,' said Spencer, 'I haven't had time.'

'Don't be snide. You should pick one up if you can. Kristina is front-page news everywhere. They're all saying it was a rapist.'

'Perfect,' said Spencer. 'In their ignorance, they'll print anything.' He asked Will to call Frankie Absalom in Boston and ask him to return to Dartmouth immediately, and also to ask Frankie if anyone could vouch for his whereabouts at Feldberg the night of Kristina's death.

'What, you think maybe Frankie killed her?' asked Will.

'What do we know? We've never met this Frankie. Somebody killed her, why not him?'

'Motive, Trace?'

'Bring him in and we'll find out.'

'Yes. I think we should check out the alibis of her friends, don't you think?'

'What alibis?'

Will didn't say anything.

'Will, listen, go to Feldberg Library, to the second floor, and ask any of the students there if they were studying late the night of November twenty-third.'

'Well, it's only ten-thirty. I don't think any students are awake this early on Saturday,' Will replied. 'And I already talked to a bunch of kids at Feldberg, and all the kids who were out there when we found her. All fifteen of them.'

'Yes?'

'Yes what?'

'Yes, I don't know. Like, yes, I saw a white male Caucasian, five-eleven, hundred and seventy pounds, shove her down, sit on top of her, and smother her.'

'O'Malley, you're describing yourself.'

'Will, go to Safety on Campus and have them put up some posters.'

'To say what?' asked Will. 'Wanted: Dead or Alive. Kristina Kim's killer.'

'Yes, exactly. Or, if you can't swing that, reward money for any information leading to the arrest, blah, blah, blah.'

'Reward money? Where do you think you are, New York?'

'Come on, we must have something in the budget.'

'Yeah, your salary. I'll talk to the comptroller. I doubt it, though. Besides, you forget, these are rich Dartmouth students. You think they'll talk for two hundred bucks?'

'I was thinking more like two thousand.'

Will laughed.

'Do what you can and I'll talk to you later,' said Spencer.

'What are you up to today?'

'Me? I'm going to take a drive with Albert Maplethorpe.'

'Sounds like fun. Can I come?'

'No, that's okay. Then I'm going to go to Red Leaves House. Talk to the woman who runs it. Want to come there?'

'No, thanks. Come noon and I'm going home till Monday. We don't have any blood work back yet. Or fingerprints.'

Spencer grunted. 'You know, in New York, the blood work on a homicide case comes back in two hours.'

'Yeah, well, where's New York when we need it?'

Spencer wanted to hang up. It was already ten forty-five. The day was short.

'The prosecutor's office called,' Will said.

'What took them so long?'

'They were short-staffed and busy '

'Will,' said Spencer tiredly. 'It was a rhetorical question.'

Will continued, '- but then they saw the coroner's report. All of a sudden it's a capital case.'

'It was a capital case from word go,' snapped Spencer.

'Well, you know, no blood, no struggle marks but they wanted to know if you wanted them to send their own investigators '

'Only if they want me to quit,' replied Spencer.

'Spence, there you go again. They're only there to help.'

'Yeah, to take over.'

'To help. To find the killer. You know?'

'No,' said Spencer. 'What else?'

Will paused. 'If we have a warrant for anyone's arrest yet.'

'Yeah, tell them, my mother. I have a warrant out for my mother. She killed Kristina. What are they, kidding?' Spencer couldn't believe it.

'The DA asked if we have any suspects.'

'Yes, call them back and tell them four thousand Dartmouth students and one hundred furloughed prisoners.'

'Spencer, they're just trying to '

'I know what they're trying to do,' Spencer interrupted. 'Call Innis, ask him to hurry on the blood work. And Landers too the prints.'

'Innis and Landers said by Monday.'

'God! Is this usual taking the weekend off during a murder investigation?'

'The labs are booked solid in Concord.'

'Oh, yeah, I forgot, Thanksgiving is notorious for inciting felonies,' Spencer said and hung up.

The phone rang immediately. 'Just wanted to ask,' said Will. 'I didn't see the contents of her safety-deposit box.'

'I entered them as evidence yesterday,' said Spencer.

'That's not what I asked,' said Will.

'Yes. Don't worry. Okay?' And Spencer hung up for the second time.

He showered, then dressed in khaki pants and a dark blue sweater. He strapped on the tan leather holster with his short-barreled Magnum in it. Looked in vain for Nescafe instant. Andie O'Malley never had had time to teach him how to use her coffeepot, though he kept it on the counter as a souvenir. Spencer got a can of Coke and sat down at his kitchen table. He swiped the old newspapers to the floor and emptied out the contents of Kristina's safety-deposit box.

He sifted through carefully. He was looking for something from her father and something from or to Albert. He was just looking, just feeling her be alive amid the papers.

There were her grandmother's letters, lamenting all the troubles, missing Kristina, missing the kids playing together at the lake.

Spencer looked at the photo of pre-adolescent Kristina holding a kite; she looked extremely neat and well attended to, her hair was short and brushed, she was smiling, and behind her was Long Island Sound. Between her and the sound was a low stone wall, and there was a stretch of beach. The time looked late autumn the leaves had gone. Kristina looked very happy, smiling broadly at the photographer.

Greenwich, Spencer thought. Greenwich, Connecticut.

The phone rang again. Will had found some reward money in the budget and was about to ask the college to put up posters around the administrative buildings, libraries, and dormitories.

'How much money?'

'Five hundred bucks,' said Will with emphasis, as if five hundred bucks were five hundred thousand bucks.

'Oh,' said Spencer widening his eyes. 'Oh, good. Well, if that doesn't get us the killer, nothing will.'

Spencer continued looking through Kristina's things. He found nothing from her father. She must have thrown out his letter telling her she was no longer his daughter.

On the back of one of her grandmother's letters, he found a note addressed to Dearest Albert.

Spencer quickly picked it up. The letter on the front was of no consequence; the note to Albert had nothing to do with the grandmother's letter. Dearest Albert, the note read, Please, please, let not the words of George Bernard Shaw apply to you She makes you Will Your own destruction.

Love, Rocky.

Spencer read the words over and over and over until he had them indelibly committed to memory. But they didn't make any sense, not the first time, not the hundredth time.

The note was written on the back of an old letter, hidden by envelopes and pictures and napkins, almost as if it weren't meant for anyone eyes but Albert's.

'Well, come on, Albert,' said Spencer aloud, getting up and taking the letter. 'It's showtime.'

Spencer drove to Hinman Hall. It was one-thirty on a gray and cloudy December afternoon.

Albert was alone in his room. They nodded to each other politely. 'Do you have a few minutes? I'd like you to take a ride with me,' said Spencer. 'I want to show you something.'

'Sure,' said Albert, putting on his leather jacket. 'I'm glad to cooperate in any way I can.'

'Can we take Aristotle?' Spencer asked.

'Rather not. He's a pain.'

'He's good dog. I'd like to take him.'

Shrugging, Albert said, 'Sure, go ahead.'