Eleven.

After the police released them, Caleb got the Jaguar and drove Anita home. They didn't speak in the car, but when he stopped in front of her building and started to open his door, she said, "Come up for a nightcap?"

She hadn't asked him that in years, not since he'd convinced her that he'd never be interested in a relationship. The question startled him momentarily. He could sense the need that prompted it. Tonight wasn't something you could just put out of mind. It needed explanation or at least interpretation. It needed closure. He nodded, closed the door, and pulled the Jag into the garage under the building, parking in a visitor s.p.a.ce.

Anita didn't wait for him to get out to open her door. She stood in the drive while he set the alarm, then slipped her arm through his as they walked out. All the while, they didn't speak. Caleb waited. She would get to it, and waiting was his life's work. Everything comes to him who waits.

The doorman said, "Good evening, Ms. Margolis. Sir," as he waved them into the lobby.

The silence continued all the way up to Anita's condo, until she'd closed the door behind them. The door opened into a short hall. White walls. Red oriental carpet over varnished oak floor. There was a small Erte print on the wall to the right. Pale gray. Rain. Stylized raindrops paralleling tears on an Erte face. Simple. Appropriate. Anita probably pa.s.sed, without seeing it, a dozen times a week. Tonight it held her. When she turned, her tears mimicked the Erte's. She grabbed him and clung as a child would. She was so small, her head barely reached his sternum. His arms closed around her reflexively.

"Oh G.o.d, Jack!"

She smelled faintly of Bain de Soleil. The scent brought to mind another beautiful Margolis, on a sun-washed beach, years earlier. Caleb felt the dismaying sense of loss before he could suppress the memory. Suppress, not repress. Put away for a more appropriate time.

He held her for a long moment, then said, "Let's talk about it."

She didn't let go as they entered the living room, pausing to turn up the lights. The room was an art gallery-vast stretches of white walls, each with original art displayed and lit to advantage, ceilings broken by skylights above luxuriant ficus and dieffenbachia. The furniture was modern and comfortable, selected to complement the art, not to be noticed for itself. The materials were for the most part natural-wood, gla.s.s, stone, wool, and leather. Anita's taste was exquisite if eclectic. Another Erte, The French Rooster, held the place of honor over the marble fireplace, in which a fire was laid between wrought iron firedogs of Celtic design. A Celtic bronze mug on the hearth held long-necked matches, and a Phalaenopsis lifted a spray of moth white blossoms over the mantle. Pica.s.so, Mir, de Chirico, and a variation of Dali's Persistence of Time adorned other walls. A Harati warmed the polished oak floor. Everything was genuine.

Anita ignored the famous names as she led him toward the couch in front of the fireplace. Her eyes swept past the Erte to the five-by-five canvas between the fireplace and the outside wall with its spectacular view of the harbor.

The painting was of a sudden violent storm over the New Mexican desert. The artist seemed not so much to have fixed the light in time as to have captured live current within the four edges of the frame, where it resonated between sky and earth, and carried the eye with it to every loving detail. A trick. An illusion that made the scene flicker in memory like the afterimage of lightning on the retina. The strong black signature in the lower right-hand corner was David Bisti's.

"He had as fine a grasp of light as anyone. Ever!" Anita shuddered. "I may have to put it away for a while." She went back to the light panel and made the painting disappear in shadow.

Caleb didn't answer, but she wasn't offended by his silence. After a pause, she said, "Why would anyone...?"

"We like to delude ourselves that we're not like other beasts, that we're immune to the pull of the moon and the ancient stirrings of the blood. But it takes very little to make us revert. Less for those who are unprepared."

"'...Still we're bound by ancient chains. Sea water tides, still, in our veins...'"

He smiled wryly.

"You stand there like Gibraltar," she added. "How do you do it?"

He didn't need to ask what. "I've seen violent death before."

"In the war. I'd forgotten." She hugged herself and shivered. The room wasn't cold. "How do the police stand it?"

"They've grown calluses on their souls. And they didn't know the victim."

With another shiver, she went to the bar. "Drink?"

"Hmm."

She didn't have to ask what he wanted. Their tastes were remarkably similar. He sat down and studied the Erte, and in a little while, she handed him a brandy.

He switched his attention to her. She could have been the artist's model. Overwrought and disheveled, she was still exquisite. The few times in his life that he'd regretted being as he was were times spent with her.

The attention made her self-conscious, and she looked herself over as women do, spotting something on her dress.

"What's this?"

As he leaned closer for a look, the smell told him. "Blood, I'm afraid."

"Oh, G.o.d! I'll have to change."

"Hmm."

"You won't go?"

He shook his head. "Take your time."

She bent over to cradle his face in her hands and brushed his forehead with her lips. "I love you."

Ordinarily he would have made some flippant remark, but not tonight.

She backed away. "Make yourself at home."

"How 'bout some Mozart?"

"Not Don Giovanni..." she said, as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

He raised his voice a little so she could hear him through the door. "G.o.d, no! But the Requiem might be apropos."

She didn't answer, so he opened the cabinet housing the CD player and sorted through her Mozart. He located the Requiem. First that, then something lighter. The machine could take up to ten disks; he selected half a dozen.

To change your mood, you started with music that fit what you were feeling and gradually adjusted the music to fit what you wanted to feel. He wanted to feel well. And whole. He went to the fireplace and opened the flue, then lit the kindling. Then he got his drink and watched the amber liquid swirl and climb the gla.s.s in the firelight. And he let Mozart inundate his mind.

Anita didn't reappear until Mozart took a turn for the lighter. She was wrapped, chin to ankles, in a fluffy white robe, soft as cat fur. She'd showered, and her hair was still damp as she settled onto the couch, into the curve of his shoulder. The scent of Bain de Soleil was even stronger.

Dej vu.

They'd been lying on the beach on the Cte d'Azur, she and Christopher and he, celebrating Chris's birthday, grilling themselves under the Mediterranean sun. They'd taken turns slathering on Anita's suntan cream and laughing at how sweet it made them smell. Caleb sighed.

Anita said, "A penny for your thoughts."

"Those whom the G.o.ds love die young."

"You were thinking of Chris, too."

"Dej vu."

It was too much. Anita pressed her face against his shirt and sobbed and screamed and squeezed the cloth of his sleeve and lapel until she'd pressed creases into it. Caleb took her on his lap and held her like a child.

Eventually, exhaustion stilled her sobs and her breath came in great shuddering gulps. Her breathing slowed. Her grip on his jacket slackened.

Caleb shifted his hold. He eased himself off the couch, lifting her slowly enough to not wake her, and carried her to her room.

Beneath another Erte, the bed had been turned down. Caleb settled her onto iris-patterned sheets and gently removed her robe. She was wearing little less than she had on that Mediterranean beach-that is, nothing at all. The Saint-Tropez tan had faded to her natural ivory skin tone, but she was as lovely as ever-small, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips that were unmistakably female, but not overwhelmingly so. He bent and kissed her bare shoulder, murmuring, "Bonne nuit, ma belle," then pulled the covers over her.

He set the security alarm before he let himself out.

It was dawn when he finally turned the key in his own lock. Sigmund Freud, Caleb's black cat, greeted him with his usual reserve, and Caleb bent to stroke him. He reset the security system and walked into the living room, where he looked long at the painting he lived with but seldom noticed anymore. Christopher's self-portrait.

Christopher Margolis, who had died more than five years earlier, gazed at him from the wall with amus.e.m.e.nt and affection. Caleb felt a brief aftershock from the cataclysm that had shattered his life-Christopher's death.

Dej dej vu.

Those whom the G.o.ds love die young. Did that apply to David Bisti?

Caleb sat on the couch and put his hands to his face and wept bitterly. It was a strange reversal of roles for a therapist. But therapeutic.

Twelve.

When Thinnes ducked under the yellow POLICE LINE tape stretched across the elevator doorway, Bisti's body had been removed. The place it had been on the gray rug was outlined with masking tape and accented with dark-red blood stains. The crime lab had removed the remaining pieces of the exhibit that the murder weapon came from.

Bendix held up the plastic bag holding the knife. "Fingerprints."

"The wife's," Thinnes said.

"There you go."

"Witness saw her pull it out. n.o.body saw it go in."

"They see anyone else around?"

"No."

"There you have it."

"Just do your thing and leave the detecting to us."

Under orders from Andrews, the receptionist had checked off the names of invitees who'd actually attended. Lucky for the police. She'd also double-checked those who left, up until the hullabaloo began. At that point, she'd forgotten all about such trivial pursuits. More luck. Dr. C. was a police consultant, familiar enough with police procedure to have asked someone to keep track of who was leaving. Once in a while you caught a break.

Thinnes didn't have to tell anyone not to talk to the press. The regular museum staff had standing orders to be discreet, and he heard their supervisor remind them that direct or anonymous quotes to the media would not be appreciated. The catering staff got a similar warning-their employer could be sued for breach of contract if they blabbed, which presumably would have a negative effect on their future job prospects. The guests only had to be offered an escort through the gauntlet of media reps outside. Most of them accepted.

After they'd gotten rid of everyone else, Thinnes and Oster went over the security arrangements and the night's events with the security staff. Several of them had been circulating in evening clothes, their radios discreetly concealed. They'd observed nothing after they threw out the crasher. No one bothered to notice which way she went when they dropped her on the sidewalk out front. Thinnes made a mental note to ask the reporters if they'd talked with anyone fitting her description. A long shot. If she had done Bisti, she'd be goofy to hang around. But then a lot of killers were goofy.

It was easier to run the security videos right at the museum than to go to the trouble of setting things up to see them at Area Three. Later he'd do that, if he needed to see them again, but he took notes as he watched, so he'd remember most of the details.

The security camera showed Todd Kent deep in conversation with a huge man-male Cauc, six two, probably 240 pounds, white hair and blue eyes, and a cynical, slightly amused expression. From his years of observing men with clout, Thinnes knew he was somebody powerful. Both men seemed to be enjoying some sort of joke.

The radio reporter was still out in front. Thinnes finally remembered his name-Rod Manly, a reporter for WMAQ. He'd been joined by his radio compet.i.tion and Minicam crews from all the TV stations. Thinnes asked them if anyone had seen a woman fitting the description of the mysterious Irene. No one had. And Manly a.s.sured him he would have remembered.

Thirteen.

Northwestern Memorial Hospital is the nearest trauma center to the Chicago Loop, but Lauren Bisti would've probably been taken there anyway. Gold Coast residents were presumed to have enough money to buy the best medical care available, and Northwestern was at or near the top of the list.

The woman at the reception desk told them that the resident who'd treated Mrs. Bisti was in the OR. They'd have to wait to see him. Mrs. Bisti was upstairs. They could see her now, although what good that would do was a matter they'd have to take up with the doctor. They elected to wait, and Thinnes went to get four coffees. He gave one each to Oster and the receptionist, and one to the doctor when he finally came out of the operating room.

They talked to the doctor in the hallway; the exam rooms were all full. They held the wall up while he sat on a gurney, back against the wall, swinging his feet as he sipped his coffee. "You can try her tomorrow morning," he said. "The paramedics treated her for the physical shock and we treated her for the psychological variety. With a sedative."

"She have any injuries, Doctor?" Thinnes asked.

"No physical injuries. Just shock. Your detective-Ryan, isn't it?-said she saw her husband murdered. That'll do it."

"She may have seen him killed, may have just found him afterward. We weren't able to get anything out of her."

"Any chance she was faking it?" Oster asked.

"You mean making her own pulse thready, skin clammy, blood pressure drop?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't say it was theoretically impossible, but I can't imagine a Gold Coast resident pulling it off."

"Anybody tried to get in to see her?"

"You'd have to ask the nurses."

Thinnes asked him a couple of how're-you-doing? questions, and he filled them in on things going on in the Emergency department. "By the way," he said. "Detective Ryan insisted we hang that b.l.o.o.d.y dress up on a hanger to dry. Claims it's evidence. Maybe, when you leave, you could take it off our hands?"

Fourteen.