Sam felt completely foolish for obsessing over what was obviously an innocuous basket of expensive fruit delivered in a chauffeur-driven Bentley.

Shrader had been totally right. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Novotny, you've been very helpful," Sam a.s.sured her automatically, because she thought it was important to make every cooperative citizen feel as if they'd been valuable. It was a way of saying "thank you for being willing to get involved."

Mrs. Novotny was so flattered that she tried to be even more helpful. "If you want to know anything else about the man driving that car, you could ask the person who sent the pears, Detective."

"We don't know who sent them," Sam said over her shoulder. "There was no card with them."

"The envelope fell off."

Something about the way she said that made Sam stop and turn.

Mrs. Novotny was holding a square envelope in her hand. "I was planning to send this upstairs to Mrs. Manning with a volunteer, but they've been busy all morning. Almost all the beds here are filled because of the blizzard. Lots of folks fell, or got in car wrecks, or had heart attacks from shoveling snow."

Sam thanked her profusely, took the envelope, and continued across the lobby. She opened the envelope, not because she expected to discover anything meaningful inside it, but because she'd already embarra.s.sed herself with Shrader and upset Mrs. Manning over the basket of fruit that it should have been attached to. She removed a small folded sheet of engraved stationery from the envelope and read the handwritten message on it. Then she stopped in midstride.

And read it twice more.

Shrader had gotten their car out of the lot and it was at the curb just outside the main doors. Puffs of exhaust were pumping out of the tailpipe and a hard, thin coat of frost had already built up on the windshield. He was sc.r.a.ping it off with his credit card-an entertaining procedure with the windshield wipers running at top speed and his knuckles bare. She waited in the car until he got in and began blowing on his cold hands and rubbing them together; then she offered him the folded note. "What's that?" he asked between puffs on his fingers.

"The note that came with Mrs. Manning's pears."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because you're cold," she said, "and I think this will... electrify you."

Shrader clearly thought that was unlikely, and he demonstrated that opinion by ignoring the note and continuing to rub his hands together. When he finished, he put the Ford into gear, looked in the rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. Finally, he reached for the note, casually flipped it open with his thumb, and as they neared a stop sign at the pedestrian crosswalk, Shrader finally allotted it a sideways glance.

"Holy s.h.i.t!" He slammed down on the brake so hard that Sam's seat belt locked and the rear end of the car fish-tailed on the icy drive. He read it again, then he slowly lifted his big dark head and gazed at her, his brown eyes bright with wonder and antic.i.p.ation-a very happy rottweiler who'd just been given a juicy sirloin. He shook his head as if to clear it. "We've got to call Captain Holland," he said, pulling the Ford over to the curb. Chuckling silently, he punched numbers on his cellular phone. "What a coup, Littleton! If Logan Manning doesn't show up soon-healthy and hale-you've just handed NYPD a case that's going to make you a heroine and Holland the next police commissioner. Commissioner Trumanti will be able to die a happy man." Into the phone he barked, "This is Shrader. I need to talk to the captain." He listened for a moment, then said, "Tell him it's an emergency. I'll hold on."

He took the phone away from his ear long enough to press the mute b.u.t.ton; then he announced, "If you weren't already Holland's fair-haired angel, you'd be that from now on."

Sam suppressed a jolt of alarm. "What do you mean, I'm his 'angel'?"

Shrader gave her an abject, hangdog look. "Forget I said that. Whatever is between you and Holland is none of my business. It's real clear now, though, that you've got more going for you than just your looks. You've got tremendous instincts, you've got tenacity, you've got ability! That's what matters."

"What matters to me at this moment is that you implied Captain Holland has some sort of partiality for me, and I want to know why you think that."

"h.e.l.l, everybody at the Eighteen thinks that!"

"Oh, gee, that makes me feel much better," she said sarcastically. "Now answer my question or I'll show you 'tenacity' like you have never-"

The person on the other end of the phone said something, and Shrader held up his hand to silence Sam's outburst. "I'll hold on," he said; then he looked at Sam, gauging the degree of determination in her facial expression, and decided he believed her threat. "Consider the evidence," he said, after pressing the mute b.u.t.ton again. "You're a rookie detective, but you wanted Homicide at the Eighteen and you got Homicide. We've got cases coming out the wazoo, but Holland doesn't want to give you any of those cases; he wants a nice clean case to start you out on. You need a permanent partner, but Holland won't a.s.sign you to just anybody. He wants to pick your partner personally-"

Sam grasped at the only lame explanation she could come up with at the moment. "Holland is handling a.s.signments for everyone right now, since Lieutenant Unger's position is still open."

"Yeah, but Holland hasn't a.s.signed you to a partner, because he wants to make sure your partner is someone real nice, someone you're 'compatible' with."

"Then how could he have picked you?"

Shrader grinned at her gibe. "Because he knows I'll 'look out for you.' "

"He told you to look out for me?" Sam gaped at him in shocked disgust.

"In exactly those words."

She digested that for a moment; then she shrugged in pretended disinterest.

"Well, if that's all it takes to make everyone think there's something odd going on, then you're all a bunch of gossipy old women."

"Give us a break, Littleton. Take a look at yourself-you're not exactly the typical female cop. You don't swear, you don't get mad, you're too proper and ladylike, and you don't look like a cop."

"You haven't heard me swear," Sam corrected him, "and you haven't seen me get angry yet, and what's wrong with the way I look?"

"Nothing. Just ask Holland and some of the other guys at the Eighteen-they think you look real fine. Of course, the only other female detectives at the Eighteen are a lot older than you and fifty pounds heavier, so they don't have a lot to compare you with."

Sam shook her head in disgust and hid her relief, but his next statement jarred her and ended that momentary respite. "Since you want to know the whole truth," he said, "according to the grapevine over at headquarters, you've got some sort of clout-friends in high places-something like that."

"That's just typical," Sam said, managing to look scornfully amused.

"Whenever a woman starts succeeding in a male-dominated profession, you guys would rather attribute her success to anything, anything, except ability."

"Well, you got plenty of that," Shrader shocked her by saying; then he broke off abruptly as Holland finally took his call and evidently began by chewing Shrader out for holding on and running up his cellular phone bill.

"Yes, sir, Captain, I know-probably five minutes. Yes, sir, Captain, but Detective Littleton discovered something I felt you'd want to know about immediately."

Since Shrader was the senior detective on the case, and also "in charge of her," Sam expected him to take some sort of credit for her discovery, or at least to claim the satisfaction of telling Holland about it himself, but to Sam's surprise, Shrader handed the phone to her with a wink. "Holland says this had better be good."

By the time Sam disconnected the call, she had no doubt that Captain Thomas Holland thought her information justified an expensive phone call.

In fact, he thought it warranted the full and immediate use of all of the NYPD's available personnel and resources.

"Well?" Shrader said with a knowing grin. "What did Holland say?"

Sam handed his phone back to him and summarized the conversation.

"Basically, he said that Mrs. Manning is going to get more help from the NYPD in the search for her husband than she ever imagined."

"Or wanted," Shrader said flatly. He glanced up at the hospital in the general direction of the third floor and shook his head. "That woman is one h.e.l.l of an actress! She fooled me completely."

Sam automatically followed his gaze. "Me, too," she admitted, frowning.

"Cheer up," he advised her as they pulled away from the curb. "You've made Holland a happy man, and by now, he's on the phone with Trumanti, making the Commissioner a happy man. By tonight, Trumanti will make the mayor a happy man. The biggest problem for all of us," he said as he put the car into gear, "will be keeping what we've got a secret. If the Feds get wind of it, they'll try to find some way to muscle in on the case. They've been trying to nail Valente on a dozen charges for years, but they can never make them stick. They aren't going to be happy when the NYPD succeeds where they've failed."

"Isn't it a little too early for all this ecstasy?" Sam said. "If Logan Manning turns up alive and well, there is no 'case.'"

"True, but something tells me that isn't going to happen. It's time for lunch,"

he added after a glance at the clock on the dashboard. "I owe you an apology for shooting holes in your theory earlier. I'll buy you a hamburger for lunch."

His extraordinary offer made Sam do a double take. Shrader was so cheap that everyone at the Eighteenth joked about it. In the few days they'd been in the mountains together, he'd already stuck her for several cups of coffee and vending machine snacks at the hospital. In view of that, and his earlier att.i.tude about her "theory," Sam decided on a revenge she knew would torture him: "You owe me a steak for dinner."

"Not a chance."

"I know just the place. But first, Captain Holland wants us to make some phone calls to the local authorities."

CHAPTER 6.

Unable to endure the thought of eating or more badgering on the subject from her nurse, Leigh hid two pieces of toast and the pear in the drawer of her nightstand; then she lay back, contemplating what the detectives had said and done. After a few minutes, she made a decision and phoned her secretary.

Brenna answered the telephone in Leigh's Fifth Avenue apartment on the first ring. "Is there any news about Mr. Manning?" Brenna asked as soon as Leigh finished rea.s.suring her about her own condition.

"No, not yet," Leigh said, trying not to sound as despondent as she felt. "I need some phone numbers. They won't be in the computer. They'll be in a small address book in the right-hand drawer of my writing desk in the bedroom."

"Okay, which numbers?" Brenna said, and Leigh could picture the efficient little blonde s.n.a.t.c.hing up a pen, poised as always to respond to any request.

"I need Mayor Edelman's direct line at his office and his private number at home. I also need William Trumanti's number at his office and his home. He'll be listed either under his name or under 'police commissioner.' I'll hold on while you get them."

Brenna was back on the phone so quickly that Leigh knew she must have sprinted to and from Leigh's bedroom. "Is there anything else I can do?" Brenna asked.

"Not right now."

"Courtney Maitland has been here several times," Brenna said. "She's absolutely convinced you're dead and that the authorities are covering it up."

Under normal circ.u.mstances, the mere mention of the outspoken teenager who lived in Leigh's building would have made her smile, but not then. "Tell Courtney that the last thing she and I talked about was how she feels about her father's new wife. That should convince her I'm alive and talking."

"I'll call her right away," Brenna said. "I arranged for a private duty nurse for you as soon as I heard about your accident. Has she been there?"

"Yes, thanks. I let her go this morning, but I should have kept her an extra day."

"Because you aren't feeling well enough yet?"

"What?" Leigh's mind was already on the phone calls she wanted to make.

"No, because she was easier to intimidate than the staff nurse."

MAYOR Edelman was leaving for a meeting when Leigh called, but his secretary told him Leigh was on the phone, and he took her call immediately. "Leigh, I'm so sorry about what's happened. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mayor," Leigh replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. "But there hasn't been any word about Logan yet."

"I know. We've asked the state police to help out, and they're doing their best, but they have their hands full up there." He paused and said very kindly, "Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"I realize this is an imposition-that it isn't even the responsibility of the New York City Police Department-but there are only two detectives up here looking for Logan, and time is slipping away. Is it possible to get more people up here to help with the search? I'll be glad to reimburse the city for the extra manpower, or any expenses involved-cost is of no importance."

"It's not entirely a matter of cost. There are some jurisdictional issues involved from the NYPD's standpoint. Commissioner Trumanti can't send an 'invasion party' into the Catskills without being asked to partic.i.p.ate in the search by the local munic.i.p.alities who have jurisdiction up there."

To Leigh, that sounded like pure trivia-the etiquette of law enforcement-and she had no time for it. "It's eighteen degrees outside, Mayor, and my husband is somewhere out there, missing. The FBI has jurisdiction everywhere.

I'm thinking about calling them."

"You can certainly try," he said, but Leigh knew from his tone that he didn't think she had any hope of getting the FBI to involve themselves in the search.

"It's my understanding there are many people still missing in that blizzard, Leigh, but they're believed to be safe and simply unable to dig their way to a main road or use a telephone. Why don't you call Bill Trumanti, and let him update you?"

"I was going to do that next. Thank you, Mayor," Leigh said, but she didn't feel particularly grateful to him. She was frantic, and she wanted more than sympathy and excuses. She wanted help, or at least suggestions for how she could get help.

Commissioner Trumanti wasn't available when she tried to reach him, but he returned her call a half hour later. To Leigh's enormous surprise and relief, Trumanti offered her a great deal more than mere suggestions; he was preparing to provide the full support and resources of the NYPD to help find Logan. "The jurisdictional issues the mayor mentioned are already being resolved as we speak," he said. He paused for a moment and put his hand over the phone, spoke a few unintelligible words to whoever was there, then returned to his conversation with Leigh. "I've just been advised that Captain Holland's detectives up there have contacted the local munic.i.p.alities and they've all agreed to let the NYPD join in their search-and-rescue efforts. In fact, their att.i.tude is 'the more help, the better.' As you know, Leigh, that was one h.e.l.l of a blizzard, and the local agencies and authorities have been working around the clock, trying to a.s.sist their residents."

Leigh was so relieved she felt like weeping.

"According to the weather forecast," he continued, "we should be getting a break very soon. I've just approved the use of NYPD helicopters to begin searching for the cabin as soon as the ceiling lifts and visibility improves to a safe level. There's a lot of area to cover, so don't get your hopes up too quickly.

In the meantime, you have two of Captain Holland's excellent detectives up there right now, and they'll follow up on any leads that come along."

"I can't thank you enough," Leigh said feelingly. She and Logan knew Commissioner Trumanti and his wife socially, but not nearly as well as they knew the mayor, and the mayor hadn't offered her much help at all. In view of that, she'd expected less, not more, help from Commissioner Trumanti, yet he was turning out to be a truly forceful, determined ally-a genuine G.o.dsend.

Leigh decided to ask if he thought she should also contact the FBI. "I told Mayor Edelman I was thinking of asking the FBI for help-" she began.

Trumanti's reaction was so negative that Leigh wondered if he'd taken it as an insult to the NYPD and to him personally. "You'd be wasting your time, Mrs.

Manning," he interrupted, turning formal and chilly with her. "Unless there's something you haven't told our detectives, there's not one shred of evidence, not one tiny detail, that would point to a crime of any kind in connection with your husband's disappearance, let alone a federal crime that would warrant calling in the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"I've had a stalker-" Leigh began.

"Who I understand has confined his activities-his very minimal activities-to a geographic area that is entirely within the NYPD's jurisdiction. No federal law has been violated. In fact, I'm not sure the NYPD would be able to charge him with anything other than making a nuisance of himself at this point."

Every time he emphasized the word "federal," Leigh felt somehow that she was being severely reprimanded, and by the person whose help and allegiance she needed most. "I see. I was only trying to think of ways to be helpful," she said with deliberate humility. She would have crawled to Trumanti on her knees if that's what it took to secure his help for Logan. "Is there anything else you could suggest that I ought to do?"

His tone underwent a definite change for the nicer. "Yes," he said. "I want you to rest as much as you can, and take good care of yourself, so that when we find Logan, he doesn't blame us for worrying you."

"I'll try to do that," Leigh promised. "I may be going home tomorrow."

"Are you well enough to leave the hospital?" he said, sounding shocked.

Leigh evaded that question but told him another truth: "Hospitals make me feel helpless and depressed."

He laughed. "Me, too. I hate the d.a.m.ned places. I don't start feeling good until I get to go home."

At that last, belated moment, Leigh finally remembered Trumanti had been waging a long fight with prostate cancer, a fight he was rumored to be losing.

She tried to think of something adequate to say and had to settle for saying, "Thank you for everything. You're being incredibly kind."