Dropping my bulk into the armchair, I jerked the phone onto my lap and dialed Marshal's cell phone number.

As soon as the ringing stopped, I said, "Marshal, it's Brew. I got a message from Ginny. She wants to talk to me." By then I could hear myself hyperventilating.

"But I don't know how to get in touch with her."

"Brew." He sounded distant, untouchable, like a man who couldn't be compelled by anything I said or did. If he noticed my breathless urgency, he didn't comment on it.

"What's going on?"

"She didn't say." My voice twitched and spattered.

"Well," he drawled back, "your timing is good, anyway. I was just about to call her myself. You can give her a message for me."

Grinding my teeth so that I wouldn't lose control, I waited for him to go on.

"You have a pencil?" he asked. Maddeningly.

Somehow I said, "Go ahead." The effort nearly strangled me.

"Tell her my sources have finally tracked down the phone number she's been curious about. She'll know the one I mean." So did I, but I didn't interrupt.

"I haven't heard yet who it belongs to, but we do have the number."

Carefully he read it to me. And repeated it. Even though I was about to scream. Then he inquired, "Got that?"

"Yes," I choked out.

"Good." As if to himself, he mused, "Maybe our client will recognize it."

The receiver seemed to throb in my hand. I wanted to howl at him, She won't! I was sure of that, although I couldn't have told him how or why. Mai Sternway had no clue what was going on. But I kept my conviction to myself.

Instead I snapped, "Fine. I'll tell her. But I still don't have " He overrode me.

"You would if you gave me half a chance. I was about to tell you." I heard teasing in his tone.

"She's using a company cell phone." Then he took pity on me.

"Here's the number."

The instant he'd recited all seven digits, I meant to slam down the handset and dial again.

I meant to. But I didn't.

We need to talk.

Despite Ginny's exigency, the pressure of her demand, something in Marshal's attitude held me like the spark at the end of an intuitive fuse, hissing and spitting down the length of its gunpowder string toward a explosion. I could almost see in advance what the detonation would do, almost measure its significance Ginny needed me.

I didn't even work for him. Nevertheless he treated me like I had the right to call on him any hour of the day or night.

And Ginny wanted to close the gulf between us. She'd demonstrated that last night. Even though a week ago she could hardly wait to disentangle herself from me.

"Marshal," I heard myself say, "can I ask you a question?"

I hadn't so much as known that I was going to speak until the words came out of my mouth.

"Ask away." He sounded too casual for the circumstances, too relaxed, as if he didn't know Ginny needed me. Or I needed her. Or we'd ever been partners.

"Why are you helping me? I mean, I'm grateful." That was the truth, but I didn't dwell on it.

"If you weren't willing to give me a hand, I don't know how I'd cope.

But I don't understand it."

He was still in a teasing mood.

"Take a guess. I'm sure you have a theory or two."

Remembering Beatrix Amity, I almost snarled, Maybe it's because you like helping us handicapped folks. Maybe that's how you atone for your sins. Axbrewder at his most sympathetic. But the burning fuse in my head warned me to think. I'd already missed too many hints.

Slowly, carefully, I said, "Of course I do. I'm good at guesses. But these days most of them aren't worth shit. I'm floundering here, Marshal. I'll do better if you just tell me."

Abruptly the atmosphere of our connection shifted. Through the phone's impersonality, I had the impression that he'd leaned forward in some way, tuned his attention more sharply. With exaggerated precision, he replied, "OK, Brew. I'll tell you.

"You and Ginny have a gift for getting involved in real cases. I don't know how you do it, but everything you touch turns into something serious, something that matters. I envy that.

"Professional Investigations brings in a lot of money, but most of what we do is pretty boring. It doesn't make any particular difference, even to the poor souls who hire us.

"I want some excitement. I want real work."

Then his tone seemed to retreat, as if he'd already exposed too much of himself. More distantly he added, "Of course I'm helping you. And Ginny. I haven't had this much fun in years."

Which probably explained his irritation with me this morning.

Inadvertently I'd made him feel insubstantial and uninformed.

"So I was wrong," I offered tentatively.

"My theory" my only real explanation "was that you help me because you feel guilty. For fucking Ginny when she and I used to be partners."

Then I gaped at the wall in chagrin. I said that? How had he gotten so much honesty out of me? If I'd given the words any actual consideration, I would've bitten my tongue in half. Or said something unforgivably nasty.

In response, Marshal burst out laughing.

"Brew, Brew, Brew," he chortled.

"Can you spell 'chemistry," you overgrown moron? If Ginny and I were going to jump into bed, we would've done it years ago, and your whole life would've been different. I like her. I respect the pantyhose off her. But " He laughed again.

"Have you been acting like an insolent twit all this time because you thought ?" Finally he was done.

"There's no chemistry." He might've been wiping the mirth from his eyes.

"I swear to God."