He shrugged. 'They were a weak family.' He was silent for a second and stopped eating. 'When I was very young, maybe a year, something happened to my mother. She died. My mother's sister wanted to take care of me, but my father would have none of it. He was living with other women then. One day my aunt took me with her after school. We had been living in Colorado and she drove to New Mexico. We lived in Albuquerque for a little while, until my father hunted us down. I don't know what he did with my aunt, but it was the middle of a summer night. He took me from her, and we hitchhiked for a long time till we got to Texas. Then something happened to him at a truck stop. He got into a fight, I think, because I found him in the back lot. I sat by him all night, and when I realized he wasn't going to get up, I got up myself and left. I went out onto the highway to find my aunt.' He paused. 'Go figure, I ended up with the Sinclairs.'

Spencer listened quietly. Nathan picked up his sandwich.

'I don't know their names; I don't know my own name, or where my aunt is, or where in Colorado we first lived. I'm not that sure it was even Colorado. It could've been Wyoming. In any case, what happened with the Sinclairs was unfortunate, certainly, but it was not death. In fact, there was a baby. It could've been much worse, and shame on the Sinclairs for not seeing it that way. How many grandkids are they going to have now?'

Spencer was too dumbfounded to speak. How could a man be so devoid of humanity? When he found his voice, he said haltingly, 'They thought of you as their son, don't you understand that? What good would a grandchild from their son and daughter do them?'

Nathan shrugged and went on finishing his club sandwich. 'Whatever,' he said.

'Did you understand then, or now, that what you did had consequences?' Spencer asked angrily. 'Listen, you didn't just take up with each other in a vacuum. This world isn't a black amoral hole where your actions have no meaning, and where nothing you do matters. Did you ever think of the people you hurt?'

'They weren't strong. I didn't ask them to be hurt.'

Spencer said, 'Had you not behaved like an idiot, you would have had a trust fund worth millions when you turned twenty-one.'

'I did not behave like an idiot,' Nathan said indignantly. 'How did I know they were going to overreact?'

'Because you should have known your little dalliance would break their hearts. Knowing that would have set you apart from an animal.'

'Knowing that and doing it anyway?' said Nathan sarcastically.

'Knowing that would have been a beginning,' said Spencer, seething.

Nathan just smiled.

'The whole world is pretty dispensable to you, isn't it?' said Spencer.

'Don't know what you're talking about.'

Spencer wanted to smash the table with his fist. 'Let me ask you, Nathan Sinclair,' he said, 'in the quiet of the night when you're alone, are you ever, tell me, are you ever simply revolted with yourself?'

Wiping his mouth and putting down his napkin, Nathan said gruffly, 'What did you come here to accuse me of, detective? Because if I'm not under arrest, I think I'm about done.'

'You're not under arrest,' said Spencer, disgusted.

'I didn't think so.'

Nathan got up from his chair. As he stood up, he gave Spencer a kind of half mock salute, half obscene gesture.

Spencer sat quietly in his chair and tried to stay in control. He didn't want to lose his temper in a public place, and when he realized that, he got scared. He thought, I don't want to lose my temper in front of all of these people and have a fistfight that everybody in the restaurant will remember. Spencer calmed down after realizing this, but not before he said, 'Watch out, Nathan Sinclair.'

Nathan leaned down menacingly. 'No you watch out, detective,' he whispered.

Spencer said, 'You destroyed a family. You ruined Conni Tobias, who is sitting in jail for five years of her life. Don't you give a shit?'

Spencer saw Nathan's face. He saw Nathan did not give a shit.

Nathan reached into the back pocket of his pants for his wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. He threw it carelessly on the table and said, smiling, 'Thanks for a pleasant lunch.'

Spencer cursed under his breath as he paid for lunch out of his own pocket and left the fifty-dollar bill as a tip for the waitress.

He didn't go back home. He couldn't. It was midafternoon, and Spencer drove around Greenwich, chanting a mantra to himself, What am I missing? What am I overlooking?

He went to the registry office of births, marriages, and deaths and looked up the date of the marriage of Nathan Sinclair and Elizabeth Elizabeth Barrett, as he found out. They had been married two years earlier, on June 12, 1995. Elizabeth had been a June bride. Then Spencer looked up her death. She had died on April 13, 1996. Nothing more was said about it, so Spencer went to the local library, where in an old issue of Greenwich Time he read a short article about the death of Elizabeth Barrett Maplethorpe.

In the middle of the day, on an open country road, going about forty-five miles an hour, a sober Elizabeth Maplethorpe lost control of the car and went off the road. Her passenger had survived. She herself, however, was not wearing a seat belt and went through the collapsible steering wheel, suffering massive head injuries. Members of her family were quoted as saying they could not believe Elizabeth was not belted in, because she would not put the car into drive unless she and all her passengers were wearing seat belts. It had something to do with a bad accident years earlier. Albert Maplethorpe confirmed that his wife usually always wore a seat belt, but she had been getting more lax with them lately. Sometimes she would just forget, he said, and this was one of those times. Mr Maplethorpe was largely unharmed except for a gash on his nose and bruises where the restraint had dug into him to keep him alive. There was not much in the article about her family; she was from New Hampshire. She was survived by Mr Maplethorpe. There were no children. There was no photograph.

Spencer sat in the library and thought for a long time. He knew it was in there, right there, somewhere, right between those lines, right in those words, but he didn't know where, he didn't know what. Elizabeth had died intestate, which meant all she had went to her surviving spouse. But what did she have that made disconnecting her seat belt worthwhile?

On a clear day, Elizabeth was taking a Sunday drive with her husband, who was properly belted in. Spencer was sure she was, too. Until just before the 'accident,' Elizabeth was belted in. Then he unbelted her. All it took was five pounds of pressure from his pinkie finger, and then he could have done a million things to make her lose control of a vehicle. They weren't on a highway, they weren't on an interstate. Nathan couldn't ensure his own survival as easily if their Jaguar had been doing seventy instead of forty. No, they were humming along on a country road, breezy, springy, sunny, and then all of a sudden she was dead and he wasn't. The investigation was closed after the insurance company made sure the seat belt had not malfunctioned. And it hadn't. He was in the car with her, the ambulance came and took them both away, and he went home and took her money.

Spencer wasn't sure Elizabeth Barrett had had money, but he was certain Nathan Sinclair hadn't had a penny. That was the whole point. Poor penniless Nathan always had to mooch off the women who loved him, thought Spencer.

Elizabeth Barrett's name sounded familiar. The brief article said she was from New Hampshire. Where in New Hampshire?

He left the library and drove out north on I-95 in the direction of New Hampshire. Spencer was not going home until he found out about Elizabeth Barrett.

Absentmindedly, Spencer listened to the radio. Occasionally a song he knew would come on, and he'd hum it. He hummed to Bruce Springsteen's 'Dancing in the Dark,' Nirvana's 'Come as You Are,' and Elton John's 'Benny and the Jets.'

In Massachusetts, about forty miles south of Brattleboro, Vermont, Spencer was humming to Kim Carnes's, 'Bette Davis Eyes,' She's got Bette Davis eyes ... she's got Bette Davis eyes. ...

Something exploded inside his head, and he swerved, almost hitting the car to the right of him. It took him fifty-three minutes from the time he heard the song to fly ninety miles to Lebanon, New Hampshire. When he came off onto I-89, it was not yet dark. It was only a few miles to Lebanon, and Spencer broke every local speed and traffic law. He skipped two red lights and neglected the stop signs. Finally, he drove around the roundabout, made a right off it onto Wheeler, and then another right.

He drove to Red Leaves House.

And there it was. On a sunny, quiet street of other older, well-kept, lived-in houses, what had been Red Leaves House sat shut and boarded up. There was no glass in the windows, only old wooden boards with rusted nails. The front door was covered with graffiti. The asphalt in the driveway was broken in places, and grass and weeds grew through the cement cracks.

Spencer sat behind the wheel for a long time, his head in his hands. And then he turned the ignition off slowly, got out of the car, and walked across the street to the house. He had seen everything there was to see; there was nothing left. The establishment plaque that had once hung on a post outside the house had been torn down. Spencer found it near the front step on the grass. He picked it up. RED LEAVES HOUSE, EST. 1973, PROPRIETOR, ELIZABETH 'BETTY' BARRETT.

For another hour, Spencer sat motionless in front of the house. He now understood everything. Then he left.

He drove out of Lebanon and took Route 10 to Hanover. He was going to visit his old partner, Will, and then he was going to visit Ken Gallagher, maybe have a drink, tell him what he had just found out.

Will would shake his head. Gallagher would nod politely. Then they would talk in hushed voices between themselves, pointing to him and shaking their heads. They would think he was nuts, and they'd be right.

He turned around before he reached Hanover, and drove back to 1-89, taking it southeast to Concord. He was headed for the DA's office. It took him thirty minutes and fifteen miles to reconsider. How could one person be tried for a crime another already had pleaded guilty to?

And what did Spencer have, anyway?

He had nothing.

Nothing except the truth.

But what would the district attorney do with the truth? The truth, Dave Peterson would say. You got a boarded-up house with a beat-up sign, and you want me to arrest a man? For what? For not caring about pregnant teenagers?

But but but, Spencer would say. He married her, don't you see, he saw everything, he wanted everything. Don't you see?

I see, Peterson would say. And you got proof of it? Oh, it's a hunch you have. Well, if it's a hunch, let's put him right in jail for life then.

Spencer shouted and hit the wheel in frustration.

Peterson would be right. He'd tell Spencer to get a confession out of the bum, and he'd buy Spencer a nice, long, cold drink, and then he'd send Spencer on his way.

Spencer got off I-89 back onto 1-91 and slowly made his way down to the Brattleboro mall, where he got lost in the crowds. First he bought himself a pair of shin-high black workman's boots. Then he purchased three black sweatsuits in three separate stores. He also bought a generic black travel bag and, in a small boutique, he laid out seventy bucks for a pair of black leather gloves with a waterproof lining on the inside. He paid cash for everything.

Back in the car, Spencer drove to the outskirts of town. In the bathroom of a gas station, Spencer put on his safety vest and changed into two of the sweatsuits, one on top of the other, and put the black boots on. The microphone was still taped to his clothes he hadn't bothered to take it off. He took it off now, spooled the tape of his conversation with Nathan out of the casing, burned it in the sink, and then ran water over the ashes.

Back in the car, he placed the recorder, the wires, and the small mike in his glove compartment.

Spencer put on the brown gloves and opened the trunk, rummaging through it until he found a cheap Saturday-night special he had confiscated in a drug bust two or three weeks ago. He had about a dozen of them in his police vehicle and had not bothered to turn them in yet. The rest remained in the trunk of the cop car. The gun was very poorly made. Spencer hoped it would work. He placed it carefully in a plastic bag under the seat of the car, then holstered his police Magnum .357 to his back and drove back to Greenwich to see Nathan.

Spencer was going to talk to him again, but without the tape recorder and without the pretense of lunch.

At about eleven at night Spencer arrived in Greenwich. He parked his car in the commuter parking lot for the Old Greenwich Metro North Station and walked the two and a half miles to Nathan's house.

He knew he had to be very careful. Nathan was probably armed to the teeth, living alone in a big old house. Who knew what ghosts Nathan was expecting to pay him a visit? The house was dark in the front; it almost looked as if no one was home. Spencer suspected Nathan was home, for he had nowhere else to go.

Between Nathan's house and a neighbor's, there was a tree-covered little path that led to the beach Spencer had seen it when Nathan was giving him a tour of the grounds.

Now Spencer took that path and made his way to the back of Nathan's house, which, unfenced, faced Long Island Sound. All the windows were dark except for a small pair on the left, lit by the blue flicker of a television. The windows were too high up for Spencer to look into, but he went up the steps to the back door and tried the knob.

The door wasn't locked.

Spencer opened the door and walked in. The television was on loud. Spencer moved quickly through the big kitchen to the left and stood in the entranceway to the den, where Nathan was lying on the couch under the windows watching TV.

Nathan saw him but didn't move. 'Well, well,' he finally said. 'I don't remember inviting you in.'

Spencer was too tense to speak.

'I knew I should've locked the back door.'

'You should have,' agreed Spencer.

Nathan slowly got up to a sitting position. 'What do I owe another visit to, Spencer Patrick O'Malley?'

Spencer said, 'I went by Red Leaves House.'

'You did. Good. You came here to tell me that?' Nathan reached over to turn on the lamp, but Spencer stopped him. 'Don't move, Nathan,' he said. 'Don't move at all.' Spencer's feet were apart, and he was holding the Magnum in his hands.

Nathan smirked but stopped moving. 'Are you going to take me in, detective? Are you going to arrest me?'

'No, Nathan Sinclair. I'm not going to arrest you.'

Nathan laughed, carelessly, insolently. 'No, of course not. You don't have a case. And you know it.'

Spencer nodded. 'I know it.'

'If you think you're going to get a teary confession out of me, you're sadly mistaken.'

'I have no such illusions, Nathan. I know you too well.'

'You don't know me at all, Spencer,' Nathan said.

'I want to know I see you here, living the life of luxury, and I want to know, was it all worth it?'

'If you know me so well, you should be able to answer that.'

'Listen, tell me something,' said Spencer, pointing his gun down. 'Tell me you didn't kill her for money. Tell me you loved her too much. Were crazy about her I could see that. You were afraid she didn't love you anymore, you were afraid she loved someone else. You were afraid she was pulling away and after Dartmouth she might marry Jim Shaw and you'd never be together again. Tell me you killed her in a fit of passionate madness. But don't tell me you killed her for money. Don't tell me that. I can't stand the thought of that. I'll go nuts thinking that's why she lost her life. Tell me you loved her, you hated her, tell me your feelings for her were too much, too strong. Tell me you loved her too much!' Spencer said passionately.

Nathan didn't reply.

'I'm just deluding myself, aren't I?' Spencer said coldly. 'You knew Kristina's grandmother left her the money, and that's why you killed her. You were hoping she made a will leaving it all to you. How cozy and convenient that would have been,' Spencer said through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped into his eyes. 'Or if she died intestate, you would have reared your head then, wouldn't you? To get her nine million, you wouldn't have continued to pretend you were Albert Maplethorpe, would you?'

Nathan said, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'What I want to know is how did you know Betty Barrett would fall in love with you?' Spencer asked. 'And Red Leaves was her life. How did you get her to close the business?'

'I didn't know she would fall in love with me,' Nathan mimicked. 'We were both dealing with Kristina's death, we were grieving and came together naturally. She was very grateful that Conni, Jim, and I donated Kristina's money to Red Leaves.' He paused, smiling, still sitting on the couch. 'As for your second question, she wasn't as crazy about running Red Leaves as you think. Five minutes of discussion made up her mind. She had always wanted to live near the water.'

Spencer felt Nathan's darkness descending on him. He put his Magnum back in the holster, keeping his hand on the Saturday-night special stuck in the back of his sweatpants. Spencer couldn't bear to think Kristina's life had come to an end over money. Couldn't bear it. And not just her life.

When Nathan didn't reply, Spencer said, 'You're not worth the life you were given. Your own life is worthless to you why should Kristina's life have meant anything? You know, it would've been better if Conni had killed Kristina. At least she had passion. She had conviction. She was made crazy by you, by your lies and betrayals, and by Kristina. It would've been better if Kristina had died for passion, not greed.'

'Better for who?' said Nathan. 'And who would it matter to? Not her she's dead. Better for who, detective?'

Shaking his head at Nathan, Spencer said, 'Is this what you wanted, to live on the water in a soulless house, all alone, surrounded by your flower gardens?'

'You have to admit,' said Nathan, sounding almost jovial, 'this isn't half bad.'

Darkness engulfed Spencer.

'She makes you will your own destruction,' he whispered. 'I get it. She was warning you. I was right. She was warning you not to be greedy. She was telling you you had plenty, but three million wasn't enough for you.'

Nathan said nothing.

'Why didn't she leave it all to you, Nathan? You were her true love why didn't she leave it to you?'

Shrugging, Nathan said, 'It hardly matters now, does it, detective?'

'She didn't leave it all to you because she wanted you to redeem yourself, to see clear through the day, to change your heart. To be a human being.'

'She already thought I was a human being, detective. She loved me, remember?'

Spencer was having trouble breathing. His heart was stopping and pounding, stopping and pounding.

'Then why didn't she tell you about the money? She was afraid of you. She was afraid you'd kill her for it. She didn't trust you, and she was right.'

Nathan smirked in the darkness. 'She wasn't afraid of me at all. But it hardly matters now, does it?'