The one that interested her the most was the matter of twenty-six- year-old Marsha Stibbs, who'd been found submerged in the bathtub by her husband, Boyd, when he'd returned from an out-of-town business trip.

On the surface, it had appeared to be one of those tragic and typical home accidents-until the ME's report had verified that Marsha hadn't drowned, but had been dead before that last bubble bath.

Since she'd gone into the tub with a fractured skull, she hadn't slid into the froth and fragrance under her own power.

The investigator had turned up evidence that indicated Marsha had been having an affair. A packet of love letters from someone who signed himself with the initial C had been hidden away in the victim's lingerie drawer. The letters were sexually explicit and full of pleas for her to divorce her husband and run away with her lover.

According to the report, the letters and their contents had shocked the husband and everyone interviewed who'd known the victim. The husband's alibi had been solid, as were all the background checks.

Boyd Stibbs, a regional rep for a sporting goods firm, was by all appearances Mr. All-American guy, making a slightly better than average income, married for six years to his college sweetie who'd gone on to become a buyer for a major department store.

He liked to play flag football on Sundays, had no drinking, gambling, or illegals problem. There was no history of violence, and he had volunteered for Truth Testing, which he'd passed with flying colors.

They were childless, lived in a quiet West Side apartment building, socialized with a tight circle of friends, and up to the point of her death had shown all signs of having a happy, solid marriage.

The investigation had been thorough, careful, and complete. Yet the primary had never been able to find any trace of the alleged lover with the initial C.

Eve tagged Peabody on the interoffice 'link. "Saddle up, Peabody.

Let's go knock on some doors." She tucked the file in her bag, snagged the jacket from the back of her chair, and headed out.

"I've never worked a cold case before."

"Don't think of it as cold," Eve told her. "Think of it as open." "How long has this one been open?" Peabody asked. "Going on six years."

"If the guy she was doing the extra-marital banging with hasn't shown in all this time, how do you rout him out now?" "One step at a time, Peabody. Read the letters."

Peabody took them out of the field bag. Midway through the first note, she let out an Ouch! "These things are flammable," she said, blowing on her fingers. "Keep going."

"Are you kidding?" Peabody wiggled her butt into the seat. "You couldn't stop me now. I'm getting an education." She continued to read, eyes widening now and then, throat working. "Jesus, I think I just had an orgasm."

"Thanks for sharing that piece of information. What else did you get from them?" "A real admiration for Mr. C's imagination and stamina."

"Let me rephrase. What didn't you get from them?"

"Well, he never signs his name in full." Knowing she was missing something, Peabody stared down at the letters again. "No envelopes, so they could have been hand-delivered or mailed." She sighed. "I'm getting a D in this class. I don't know what you're seeing here that I'm not."

"What I'm not seeing is more to the point. No reference to how, when, or where they met. How they became lovers. No mention of where they boinked each other's brains out in various athletic positions. That makes me pause and reflect."

At sea, Peabody shook her head. "On?"

"On the possibility that there never was a Mr. C." "But-"

"You have a woman," Eve interrupted, "married for several years, with a good, responsible job, a circle of friends she's kept for, again, several years. From all statements none of those friends had any inkling of an affair. Not in the way she behaved, spoke, lived.

She had no time missing from work. So when did said athletic boinking take place?"

"The husband traveled fairly regularly."

"That's right, which opens the possibility for an affair if one is so inclined. Yet our victim exhibited all indications of loyalty, responsibility, honesty. She went to work, she came home. She went out in the company of her husband or with groups of friends.

There were no unsubstantiated or questionable calls made to or from her home, office, or portable 'links. Just how did she and Mr. C.

discuss their next tryst?"

"In person? Maybe he was someone at work." "Maybe."

"But you don't think so. Okay, she appears to have been committed to her marriage, but outsiders, even close pals, don't really know what goes on inside someone else's marriage. Sometimes the partner doesn't even know."

"Absolutely true. The primary on this agrees with you and had every reason to do so."

"But you don't." Peabody acknowledged. "You think the husband set it up, made it look like she was cheating, either set up the alibi and snuck home to kill her, or had it done?"

"It's an option. That's why we're going to talk to him."

Eve shot up a ramp to the second-level street parking, muscled her vehicle between a sedan and a jet-bike. "He works out of his home most days." She nodded toward the apartment building. "Let's see if he's there."

He was home. A fit, attractive man wearing athletic shorts and a T- shirt and holding a toddler on his hip. One look at Eve's badge had a shadow moving into his eyes. One that had the texture of grief.

"It's about Marsha? Has there been something new?" He turned his face, briefly, into the white-blonde hair of the little girl he carried.

"I'm sorry, come in. It's been so long since anyone's gotten in touch about what happened. If you want to sit down, I'd like to settle my daughter in the other room. I'd rather she didn't..."

This time it was his hand that moved to the girl's hair. Protectively.

"Just give me a minute." Eve waited until they'd left the room. "How old's the kid, Peabody?"

"About two, I'd say."

Eve nodded and moved into the living area. There were toys strewn about the floor and cheery furnishings. She heard a high-pitched, childish giggle, and a firm demand. "Daddy! Play!"

"In a little while, Trade. You play now, and when Mommy gets home maybe we'll go out to the park. But you have to be good while I talk to these ladies. Deal?"

"Swings?" "You bet."

When he came back, he ran both hands through his own dark blond hair. "I didn't want her to hear us talk about Marsha, about what happened. Has there been a break? Have you finally found him?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stibbs. This is a routine followup."

"Then there's nothing? I'd hoped... I guess it's stupid after all this time to think you'd find him." "You have no idea who your wife was having an affair with."

"She wasn't." He bit the words off, fury leaping onto his face and turning it hard. "I don't care what anyone says. She wasn't having an affair. I never believed... At first I did, I guess, when everything was crazy and I couldn't think straight. Marsha wasn't a liar, she wasn't a cheater. And she loved me."

He closed his eyes, seemed to draw himself in. "Can we sit down?"

He dropped into a chair. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. I can't stand people saying that about Marsha. I can't stand knowing people, friends, think it of her. She doesn't deserve that."

"There were letters found in her drawer."

"I don't care about the letters. She wouldn't have cheated on me. We had..."

He glanced back toward the child's room where the little girl was singing tunelessly. "Look, we had a good sex life. One of the reasons we married so young was that we couldn't keep our hands off each other, and Marsha believed strongly in marriage. I'll tell you what I think." He leaned forward. "I think someone was obsessed with her, fantasized or something. He must have sent her those letters. I'll never know why she didn't tell me. Maybe, I guess maybe, she didn't want to worry me. I think he came here when I was in Columbus, and he killed her because he couldn't have her."

He was registering high on the sincere meter, Eve thought. Such things could be feigned, but where was the point here? Why insist the victim was pure when painting her with adultery served the purpose? "If that was the case, Mr. Stibbs, you still have no idea who that person might be?"

"None. I've thought about it. For the first year afterward, I hardly thought about anything else. I wanted to believe he'd be found and punished, that there'd be some kind of payment for what he did. We were happy, Lieutenant. We didn't have a goddamn care in the world.

And then, it was over." He pressed his lips together. "Just over."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stibbs." Eve waited a beat. "That's a cute kid."

"Trade?" He passed a hand over his face as if coming back to the present. "The light of my life." "So you remarried."

"Almost three years ago." He let out a sigh, gave his shoulders a little shake. "Maureen's great. She and Marsha were friends. She's one of the ones who helped me through that first year. I don't know what I'd've done without her."

Even as he spoke, the front door opened. A pretty brunette with an armful of groceries kicked the door shut with her foot. "Hey, team!

I'm home. You'll never guess what I..."