I shook my head in disgust. I sat there in my truck, off guard and full of indignation. I didn't even hear him until it was too late. The driver's door jerked open, and the gun flew out of my lap. I felt as if I'd been wrenched from my mother's bosom. Pasqual dragged me to the ground, his face looming over me, his complexion florid and furious. He drew back his fist and aimed it at my jaw.

I rolled my head to one side, and his hand hit the ground. Pasqual yelled, but not as loud as Jose did, shouting at his brother to stop. Then I heard the click of the hammer. Pasqual heard it, too, and released me immediately. By now a crowd had gathered. Gun in hand, Jose looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.

"You kill Martina!" Jose screamed out to Pasqual. "I'm going to kill you!"

Pasqual looked genuinely confused. He spoke in Spanish. "You killed her, you little s.h.i.t! You beat her to death when we couldn't find the ring!"

Jose looked at me, his expression saying: Do you understand this? Something in my eye must have told him I did. I told him to put the gun down. Instead, he turned his back on me and focused his eyes on Pasqual. "You lie. You get drunk, you kill Martina!"

In Spanish, Pasqual said, "I tried to stop you, you a.s.shole!"

"You lie!" Jose said. And then he pulled the trigger.

I charged him before he could squeeze another bullet out of the chamber, but the damage had been done. Pasqual was already dead when the sirens pulled up.

The two other brothers backed Jose's story. They'd come to confront Martina about the ring. She told them she had left it at home. But when they returned to the house and the ring wasn't there, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, had beaten Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.

Jose will be charged with second-degree murder for Pasqual, and maybe a good lawyer'll be able to bargain it down to manslaughter. But I remembered a murderous look in Jose's eyes after he'd stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I'd be going after Jose with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that's not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict-right or wrong-wouldn't bring Martina back to life.

I called Mrs. Pollack after it was all over. Through her tears, she wished she'd never remembered the ring. It wasn't her fault, but she still felt responsible. There was a small consolation. I was pretty sure I knew where the ring was.

I'm not too bad at guesses-like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church-three with beat-up Dodgers caps, the fourth wearing a new painter's cap. Something off-kilter.

So my hunch had been correct. Pasqual had once owned a Dodgers cap. Where had it gone? Same place as Mr. Pollack's robe. Martina had packed the robe in her bag Monday morning. When she was forced off the bus by Jose and his brothers, I pictured her quickly dumping the bag in a garbage bin at the bus stop, hoping to retrieve it later. She never got that chance.

As for the ring, it was right where I thought it would be: among the discards that had shrouded Malibu Mike the night he died. The Dodgers cap on Malibu's head got me thinking in the right direction. If Malibu had found Pasqual's cap, maybe he'd found the other bag left behind by Martina. After all, that bin had been his spot.

Good old Malibu. One of his layers had been a grimy old robe. Wedged into the corner of its pocket, a diamond ring. Had Malibu not died that Monday, Jose might have been a free man today.

Mrs. Pollack didn't feel right about keeping the ring, so she offered it to Yolanda Flores. Yolanda was appreciative of such generosity, but she refused the gift, saying the ring was cursed. Mrs. Pollack didn't take offense; Yolanda was a woman with pride. Finally, after a lot of consideration, Mrs. Pollack gave the ring to the burial committee for Malibu Mike. Malibu never lived wealthy, but he sure went out in high style.

TENDRILS.

of LOVE

"Tendrils of Love" falls under the

category of "be careful what you wish

for," especially in this modern-day age

of instantaneous communication via

the wireless highway. It is not a smart

practice to believe everything you read.

In some cases, it can be deadly.

THERE IS AN ARM-LONG AND SINUOUS-stretching across gigabytes of electronic cables, fingers emitting charged impulses that touch, then seize, unsuspecting hearts. And so it was with Ophelia. What started out as a lark to alleviate boredom became a hobby, which gave way to an obsession. Private hours spent on the Net, trapping human discourse. In the end, it was the Net that trapped her. Because when she met Justice, she broke every cardinal rule of proper cyberbehavior-giving him the state where she lived, then the city, and ultimately, her real name.

There were things to consider: her life as it stood. But she made the decision with ease. Not a hard one, but an important one. It ended her ten-year stale marriage, her dead-end job, and her nowhere life. She prayed it was the right decision, if not the moral one.

The morning she decided to leave her husband held no special markers. Brian got up as usual, showered and shaved, lumbered down to the breakfast table, tossed her a usual "Mornin'." He slipped two slices of sourdough in the toaster, poured himself a cup of coffee. Ophelia poured her own, remembering a time when Brian not only served her java but ground it fresh. A millennium ago.

She regarded her mate, trying to imagine life without him. Brian had held up nicely. At thirty-five, he retained a head of black hair and wrinkle-free skin with regular features. Good living had rounded his waistline, hiding a once-flat stomach. But at 210 pounds, he still had a muscular and fit appearance. Physicality wasn't the problem. Ophelia found him desirable. It was the slow disintegration of his love and affection until all that remained were pecks on the cheek and pats on the hand.

She hadn't meant to fall for Justice, but they had so much in common. Included was a longing for something more, something bigger. He told her he was in his forties, also unhappily married, in the throes of a crisis. He, like her, had felt that life was pa.s.sing him by. They both wanted more; both hoped they would find the elusive piece of the pie in each other's arms.

Brian left for work at the usual time, his smile and goodbye as personal as autopilot. Ophelia smiled back. And then she heard the door close.

What would Brian think when he read her note? She supposed he would be shocked, stunned by the betrayal that would pierce like a lance of emotional hurt. A serious wound, not a mortal one. Eventually, he would turn to self-righteous anger and indignation. Take it out on her. Messy times ahead, but who said life was easy.

Alone in the house, she felt her heart pounding with adolescent excitement.

She was really going to do it.

Up to the bedroom, packing her suitcase, throwing it into the trunk of her Camry. The transfer of funds had been completed yesterday-ten thousand dollars squirreled away in a secret bank account. It represented freedom as heady as an aged cabernet.

She drove to work in record time.

Her boss waiting at her desk, foot tapping, scowl on his face. Shoving a pile of work in her face before she had a chance to take off her coat.

Charles Lawrence Taft. A pig and a petty bureaucrat, thickheaded and small-minded. She waited until he left, then took out the dense manila envelope from her briefcase. It contained a five-page, single-s.p.a.ced doc.u.ment of every inappropriate move the man had ever made. Also included in the package were secret tapes of his lewd comments, of his racial slurs, and of his callous disregard of his coworkers. It was not only enough to get him fired but enough to ensure an out-of-court settlement with the company. She had decided that a quarter of a million would do the trick.

Extortion?

Hardly.

Just combat pay.

A nice surprise for Justice after it had all worked out.

She slaved until noon, typing in a windowless cubicle on her word processor, sending Justice piles of e-mail love letters. His excitement was palpable and leaped off the monitor. He wrote her that he couldn't wait to hold her in his arms, caress her body, smother her in kisses.

Their union. It had been born, nurtured, and sustained via an underground roadway. Secretive . . . hidden from view. It was now time for them to board the El train.

A group of rough-and-ready scouts taking a sunrise walk found the body in one of the many swollen creeks that snaked through the backwoods. A well-developed, well-nourished white female who wore a now-sodden black wool dress. The hem of the garment was caught on a craggy rock and kept her anch.o.r.ed as she bobbed in rhythm to the ripples in the water. The dress had risen above her hips, displaying colorless legs. Her black panty hose had puddled around her ankles, and there were no shoes on her feet. A black coat had been left about fifty yards to the right, crumpled in a pile of dead leaves. She wore jewelry but not in the normal fashion. A braided gold chain had been wound tightly around her neck, turning her face as shiny and purple as eggplant. No ID on the body. No purse in direct view.

The county coroner-who also owned the Kenton, Missouri, mortuary-took the body's temperature and shook his head when he read the results.

"Been here overnight."

Deputy Jim Schultz rubbed itchy eyes and hiked his pants over an ever-growing gut. An old man's move. Seeing this horror, he felt like an old man. "Overnight as in twelve hours, Cale, or overnight as in six hours?"

"That sounds about right."

"What does?"

"Six to twelve hours." Cale shivered as he clumsily recorded the numbers. Not easy writing with gloves as big as catchers' mitts. At least his hands were warm. "Ain't no local, Jimbo."

"They never are," Schultz remarked.

As he stared at the inflated face, he rubbed his wool-gloved hands on his leather bomber jacket. Why did they always leave 'em on his turf? Something to do with the locale. St. Louis to Kenton was a straight highway ride of seventy-five miles. Made for perfect dumping ground. He called out, "Joe?"

"Yo." Joe was doing squats, trying to deliver warmth to his bony body.

Schultz said, "Someone left a black coat, 'bout hunnerd, two hunnerd feet . . . under the copse of oaks. See it?"

"Yeah, I see it."

"Go fetch it and rummage through the pockets. See if maybe we can find some ID somewhere. 'Cause I can't find a purse."

"Murderer took it?"

"Probably," Schultz said. "Reckon not too many ladies travel without a purse."

Joe shook his head. "I don't recognize her."

Cale said, "Jimbo and me already decided that she ain't no local."

"I heartily concur with that," Joe stated. "Poor thing. Whaddya do to get in a fix like this, sugar?"

"Probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Schultz said.

"Want me to run it over the wire, boss?" Joe asked. "See if Medford or Athens reported someone missin'?"

"First the coat, Joe."

"Ah . . . right." The a.s.sistant deputy jogged over to the discarded item, desiccated brush crunching beneath his feet. Picked up the leaf-crusted coat and brushed it off. He checked the pockets, shook his head. "Nothin' so far."

"Bring it here," Schultz said.

Joe walked back. "Nice coat. Better than the usual stuff they sell at Wal-Mart . . . or even Penney's." He read the label. With his bulging eyes, he looked like a preying mantis. "It's got cashmere in it, Jimbo. Ten percent."

Schultz took the coat, looked for a department-store label. It had been ripped out. He also searched the oversize exterior pockets and found nothing except b.a.l.l.s of lint. Ran his gloved hand over the satin lining, found a small notch. A tiny interior pocket-good for ticket stubs and not much else. He took off his gloves, dipped two meaty fingers inside the smooth material, and came up with a yellow slip of paper.

A credit-card receipt from Macy's.

Schultz said, "a.s.suming this coat belongs to our lady, we got ourselves a name, folks. Ophelia Wells."

Schultz called it in to the St. Louis police.

No one by that name had been reported missing. A moment later, SLPD had come up with an address and telephone number. Schultz called the number, but no one picked up the phone.

He made it to the Gateway City shortly before noon. The day was cloudy and bitter, the gray sylvan landscape ceding to a lifeless inner-city winter. Ophelia Wells lived in one of the newer suburbs. SLPD had told Schultz to check in with them before he did anything, but he ignored their request. It was his body, he'd do it his way.

He found the house, rapped his knuckles against the door. To his surprise, someone answered the knock. The man looked p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l, though his anger turned to curiosity as he studied Schultz's uniform.

"Mr. Wells?" Schultz asked.

"Yes?"

"Deputy James Roy Schultz from the Kenton County Sheriff's Department." He flashed his badge. "May I come in for a moment?"

"What is it?"

"Mr. Wells, it's awfully cold out here."

"Sorry . . ." Wells backed away from the door. "Come in."

Schultz entered, and Wells shut the door, offering his hand. "Brian Wells."