"He didn't have any close friends?"

"We were each other's closest friend."

"I see. Then you don't have any close friends, either? People you confide in?"

She said it in a way deliberately designed to make Leigh feel like an antisocial loner if she couldn't come up with a single friend either of them had, and the ploy worked. "I'm in show business, and my friends are mostly in the arts and entertainment world. They tend to be people who enjoy publicity more than privacy, so they aren't very good at keeping secrets-their own or mine.

I've learned not to confide things that I don't want to appear in Liz Smith's column or the Enquirer."

Detective Littleton nodded as if she completely understood, but her words proved she was frustratingly single-minded. "According to an item I read in Page Six in the Post about your birthday party, there were over three hundred people here to celebrate with you. Didn't you or your husband know any of them well enough to confide something, sometime?"

Leigh realized that if she didn't give Sam Littleton some names, the detective was likely to keep pressing her on this pointless topic until nightfall, so she mentally replayed a few minutes of her party, and gave Sam Littleton the names of the first people who came to mind: "Jason Solomon is a friend of mine."

"Personal as well as business?"

"Yes. Sybil Haywood is another friend; so is Theta Berenson..."

"The artist?"

"Yes. Oh, and Sheila Winters. Dr. Winters is a friend of mine and also of my husband's."

Sam made a note. "Dr. Winters? Did your husband have any serious health problems?"

"No. Sheila is a psychiatrist."

McCord spoke for the first time. "Were you patients of hers?"

Leigh felt uneasy about the question, as if she'd laid a trap for herself. "We saw her briefly several years ago as patients. Now she is simply a close friend of ours."

"Who needed the psychiatrist?" McCord said bluntly. "You or your husband?"

Leigh was on the verge of telling him to mind his own business, and she would have if Sam Littleton hadn't quickly said, "You don't have to answer that question, Mrs. Manning, if it will make you feel at all uncomfortable. Lieutenant McCord and I haven't worked together before, but from the sound of his question, he's one of those men who prides himself on letting a cold turn into pneumonia rather than seeing a doctor. He probably changes the oil in his own car and pulls his own tooth, rather than going to a dentist." She smiled warmly at Leigh. "Unlike the lieutenant, I know that intelligent, busy people who can afford it usually prefer to save time and effort by consulting with specialists in every field, whether it's auto mechanics, computer technology, or"-she transferred her smile to the man beside her-"medicine."

Leigh was so much in agreement with Sam that she felt compelled to prove Detective Littleton's theory to the man who outranked her, and she explained the minor reason Logan and she had consulted with Sheila. "Logan didn't know how to slow down and enjoy life. Sheila helped him realize very quickly that he was missing out on some of the best things in life by driving himself so hard."

Detective Littleton leaned forward eagerly. "Is it possible that your husband might have confided in Dr. Winters-as his friend-that he'd bought a weapon, and why he bought it?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. Sheila and Logan had lunch now and then, but it was purely social. They came from the same background and knew a lot of the same people. I called Sheila this morning and told her about Logan. She would have told me this morning if he'd ever mentioned buying a gun."

"Maybe she didn't feel that she could or should. Do you mind if we talk to her? "

Leigh shook her head. "No, but I'm sure Logan bought the gun because of the stalker."

Detective Littleton's expression turned somber. "I had hoped to spare you this knowledge, Mrs. Manning, but your husband purchased that gun in March-six months before your stalker entered the picture." While Leigh was still reeling from that information, Detective Littleton said, "Now do you see why it's important we talk to Dr. Winters? If your husband was afraid for his life, he might have-even inadvertently-given her some idea of why he was afraid...

or who he was afraid of."

"Then, by all means, talk to her."

"We'll need your written permission, and I'm sure Dr. Winters will require it also, before she feels ent.i.tled to breach doctor-patient privilege. Would you be willing to give us that permission?"

"Yes, if you promise to keep the information confidential."

"We will be very, very discreet," Detective Littleton promised as she tore a small sheet of paper out of her notebook and handed it to Leigh, along with her pen. "Just write something out that says you authorize her to give us information about your husband."

Leigh did it automatically, following wherever she was led... or pushed.

When she handed the paper back to Sam Littleton, she said, "I keep thinking about the person who ran me off the road that night. Maybe that's who murdered my husband."

"We're looking for him, and we've redoubled our efforts since finding your husband yesterday. We'd like your permission to not only talk to your husband's employees, but also to remove and inspect any records we think might be pertinent to this case. We'll see that they aren't lost. Is that all right with you? "

"Yes."

Sam closed her notebook and looked at McCord. "Do you have any other questions, Lieutenant?"

McCord shook his head and stood up. "I'm sorry about my reaction to the mention of Dr. Winters. Detective Littleton has me pegged right-I still change the oil in my own vehicle, and my computer at home hasn't worked in two years because I won't let someone else fix it. The only dentist I know is the one I'm investigating right now."

Leigh accepted his apology, but she was startled by his humble tone because it seemed at odds with his cold gaze and perfunctory smile. "The medical examiner should be ready to release your husband's body tomorrow," he added.

"Let us know about the funeral arrangements. With your permission, we'd like to have our people at the funeral services."

Leigh grasped the back of the sofa for support, shuddering at the casual, unfeeling way he referred to her "husband's body" and "funeral arrangements."

Logan was dead. He would never smile at her again, never pull her close to his body in bed when he slept. His body was in a morgue. She hadn't given a thought to funeral arrangements yet, although Brenna had gently brought up the subject that morning when Trish Lefkowitz called to offer her help. "Why do you want your people there?" she asked when she could trust her voice.

"As a precaution, that's all. You had a stalker, and your husband's been murdered."

"Do whatever you think is necessary."

McCord looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "I'll see if Detective Shrader is finished."

Detective Shrader was not only finished, he was enjoying a cup of coffee and a homemade biscuit while the chauffeur chatted with him about football.

The three detectives rode down in the elevator in silence. For security purposes all visitors to the Mannings' building were required to register in a large book when they arrived and to sign out when they departed. The keeper of the visitors' register was an elderly uniformed doorman, whose name tag identified him as "Horace." He was seated at a curved, black marble desk in the center of the lobby. "Such a shame about Mr. Manning," Horace said, handing Shrader a pen so that he could sign all three of them out in the big leather-bound book he'd signed them in on earlier.

Instead of taking the pen, Shrader took the book and handed the doorman a folded subpoena. "This subpoena allows us to take this item into evidence," he told the startled doorman. "Do you have another book that you can use?"

"Well, yes-but we aren't supposed to start using it until January, and this is only December."

"Start using the new one right away," Shrader ordered. "And if anyone asks what happened to this one, just say someone spilled something on it. Can you do that?"

"Yes, but my boss-"

Shrader handed him his card. "Have your boss call me."

CHAPTER 30.

Shrader was driving, so Sam took the visitors' book from him and slid into the backseat, letting McCord sit next to Shrader in the front. She had the book open before they pulled away from the curb, and she began looking through the names, beginning at November 1 and moving forward.

"What did you get from the housekeeper?" McCord asked Shrader.

"According to Hilda Brunner, the Mannings were a perfect couple. No quarrels, not even an occasional spat. Mr. Manning came home late sometimes, but he always phoned, and he was always home by eleven or twelve at the latest.

He's taken a few short business trips. Mrs. Manning hasn't spent a night away from home without him in the three years the Brunner woman has worked for them.

"She confirmed that Manning left the apartment on Sunday morning sometime around eight, and that he made two trips down to his car with items he was taking to the mountains. Among those items were two crystal gla.s.ses, a bottle of wine, a bottle of champagne, and..." He let the sentence hang for effect before he added with a grin of triumph, " two dark green sleeping bags. She's sure there were two sleeping bags because she had to help him find them in the back of a closet, and she saw him carry them out of the apartment."

"Anything else?" McCord asked, pleased.

"Yeah. She gave me a fantastic biscuit and a warning not to upset Mrs.

Manning or get crumbs on the floor."

"What about the chauffeur?"

"His name is Joseph Xavier O'Hara, and he gave me nothing. Zero. Nada. He actually works for another couple-Matthew and Meredith Farrell from Chicago. They left a couple of weeks ago on a world cruise. When the Farrells found out about Leigh Manning's alleged stalker, they 'lent' O'Hara to the Mannings until they get back."

"That's it?"

"No. O'Hara knows something-something he doesn't want to talk about."

"Valente?"

"Could be. Probably is. You said not to mention Valente, so I didn't ask O'Hara about him, but he didn't volunteer anything either."

"That's all you got from him?"

"No, I got a warning from him, too." Shrader said wryly. "He told me not to upset Mrs. Manning and to forget it if we thought she had anything whatsoever to do with her husband's death. He's not naive, and he's not just a chauffeur. He's a bodyguard, and he's licensed to carry a weapon."

"What about the secretary?" McCord asked.

"Brenna Quade," Shrader provided. "She actually works mostly for Mrs.

Manning, and she backed up the housekeeper's story-she said the Mannings were a very happy couple. She gave me a copy of the guest list for the party a week ago." He reached into his jacket pocket and removed several sheets of paper with neatly typed names in alphabetical order. "Another copy was given to the doorman so he knew who the invited guests were. Guess whose name wasn't on the original list?"

"Valente," McCord said, unfolding the list and scanning the names.

"Right. His name was added in pencil the afternoon of the party-at Logan Manning's request."

"What about you?" Shrader asked McCord. "Did you find out anything interesting?"

McCord inclined his head toward the backseat, where Sam was poring over the visitors' register. "As a matter of fact," he said dryly, "I found out that Detective Littleton thinks I'm an elderly, toothless redneck with an oil rag hanging out of my pocket and an uneducated att.i.tude toward doctors of all kinds, and shrinks in-particular."

Sam didn't bother to defend or explain her actions, and she was a little surprised when McCord did it for her. "Littleton realized I'd spooked the Manning woman, so she teed me up and took a swing at me, right in front of her.

In return, she got the woman to sign a release so that their shrink has to talk to us. I couldn't believe Littleton got her to do it, and so easily."

"It's always easy to persuade innocent, uninvolved people to do the right thing," Sam murmured, turning the page. "I'm not saying I definitely think she's innocent, but there's something about her that I just can't reconcile with being a coconspirator in the murder of her husband. Last night," she continued, directing her explanation to Shrader, "when we told her that her husband was found shot to death, Leigh Manning held her hand out to me and begged me to say McCord was wrong. My G.o.d, I was almost in tears, and-" Sam broke off, staring at a scrawled name entered in the visitors' register the night before; then she slammed the book closed. "Dammit! I cannot believe it!"

"What can't you believe?" Shrader asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

McCord's voice was laced with cynical amus.e.m.e.nt. "I think Detective Littleton has just discovered that Valente was in Manning's apartment last night, staying out of sight, while the widow put on her performance for Littleton and almost made her cry."

Sam's anger with herself began to turn outward toward a new target-Mitch.e.l.l McCord. "How did you know that?" she inquired with a calm she didn't feel.

"I saw Valente's name in the register last night when I signed us in and out."

That was exactly what Sam had suspected he was going to say. Furious and disappointed in him, she laid the heavy book on the seat beside her and looked out the window while she forced her features into a pleasant, noncommittal mask. When McCord asked her a few minutes later if she wanted to accompany him to Forensics to check on Manning's tests, she said very pleasantly, "Of course."

SHEILA was with a patient when Leigh called, but she returned the call a few minutes later. "I just have a quick question," Leigh explained. "By any chance, did you know Logan bought a gun?"

"No."

"I didn't think so, but the police are going to ask you about it anyway. They think Logan may have confided in a friend."

CHAPTER 31.

Ballistics confirmed that the slug that penetrated Logan Manning's brain and lodged in the left-hand wall of the garage was from the .38 special found in his vehicle. So was the slug recovered from the right-hand wall.

The medical examiner hadn't completed his written report yet, but Herbert Niles was perfectly willing to give Sam and McCord the highlights of the findings. "Logan Manning definitely went out with a buzz," he announced cheerfully.

"That's cute, Herb," McCord retorted impatiently. "I wasn't being 'cute,' I was being literal-and cute. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the right temple, which occurred less than an hour after he had imbibed the better part of a bottle of wine. White wine chardonnay, I'd guess."

CHAPTER 32.