By then most of the traffic had scurried for shelter. I found a parking space at the curb no more than ten yards from the entrance to Chez Amneris. Ten yards in this storm There may've been covered parking somewhere nearby, but I'd never find it.

Naturally I didn't own anything as reasonable as a raincoat or an umbrella. By the time I reached the restaurant's front door, I'd look like a puppy someone tried to put to sleep in a bucket.

For a couple of minutes, I sat where I was, hoping for a break in the deluge and trying to convince myself that Deborah wouldn't let weather like this stop her. But the rain just came down harder.

Finally I swallowed what was left of my dignity. Leaving my cell phone on the passenger seat to keep it dry, I jumped out of the van, slammed the door, and ran like the damned for what Deborah had called her favorite restaurant.

Those ten yards felt like slogging along the bottom of a lake. By the time I burst into shelter, I wore enough water to irrigate a football field.

Slapping moisture out of my eyes while I fountained in all directions, I found myself almost nose-to-nose with the maitre d'. His disapproving mustache matched the hard glare in his eyes. He retreated quickly to protect his tux, flapped his hands to ward me away.

"Perhaps," he sniffed with immaculate hauteur, "monsieur is unaware of the invention of umbrellas."

"That's not all," I told him in a sputter of rain.

"I also didn't know they'd invented rude waiters."

He didn't rise to the challenge. Instead he fixed his glare on my sodden shoes.

"Of course monsieur has a reservation."

Like I needed one. The place was practically empty.

When I looked around, however, I spotted Deborah Messenger at a table near the back of the room. As soon as I saw her, she waved and smiled.

I grinned back.

"I guess I do," I told mine host as I turned my back on him and strolled away, squishing.

Chez Amneris was done up in a pseudo-Egyptian motif, complete with potted palms, Moroccan tableware, and sand-strewn pyramids in fresco.

But the management had replaced the traditional rush-strewn floor with a hearty maroon carpet that made the whole room look awash in drying blood.

As far as I could see, Deborah wasn't wet at all. Her hair flowed around her head like a nimbus, dry and full of life, and her face had the fresh moist gloss of makeup rather than rain. She wore a mauve silk blouse that would've shown every drop of water, but instead it seemed to float against her, teasing me with hints.

She must've brought an umbrella the size of a trampoline.

A welcoming glitter in her eyes matched her smile. What with one thing and another, she nearly ravished me off my feet.

I didn't try to sit down. I wasn't sure I could. When I'd grinned back at her for an hour or two, I muttered sheepishly, "I could use some paper towels."

She laughed and pointed.

"The restrooms are that way."

Unsteadily I sloshed away.

By the time I returned still wet, but no longer dripping she'd ordered herself a glass of burgundy, and the maitre d' had taken advantage of my absence to set a menu at my place. As I sat down across from her, she laughed again.

"Apparently I forgot to tell you there's a parking garage next door."

So much for the trampoline theory.

"You poor man, you look like you've been through the rinse cycle once too often."

Since there was hauteur in the air, I tried to fake some.

"I prefer to think of it," I sniffed like the maitre d', "as 'rode hard and put away wet."

" Deborah bit her lip mock-solicitously.

"Did you have a horrible time getting here?"

"Moderately horrible," I admitted.

"But it's already worth it."

"You're too kind," she told me.

"But don't stop. I like it." Then she turned serious.

"This must have been a difficult day. How are you?"

I considered the question briefly.

"Confused."

"Not about me, I hope."

"Actually, I am. I can't figure out what a woman like you wants with me." I smiled to take the edge off my clumsiness.

"But on the Great Scale of Incomprehension, that's one of my lesser problems. The rest are bigger."

"Tell me," she urged.

So I told her. Even though I didn't know how to trust her. I needed to talk more than I'd realized.

Apparently I'd forgotten how much I used to talk to Ginny and how much good it did me.

Once I got started, I lost track of the ordinary details of dinner. The fact that I felt like I was wearing wet towels stopped bothering me. I ordered and ate something without registering what it was, drank club soda without noticing the lovely, pernicious aroma of burgundy. Instead I just talked. About Puerta del Sol and Ginny. About Bernie and Mai Sternway. About Alyse and Marshal, Turf Hardshorn and Sifu Hong.

Whenever I got stuck, Deborah asked an attentive question, and I went on.

Outside the storm grew stronger. Thunder crashed like granite through the downpour, and shots of lightning paled Chez Am-neris's lamps in jagged streaks. But the effect was muffled, almost impersonal. It didn't get in my way.

I was still going when Deborah announced, "Brew, I want you to come back to my apartment." From the look in her eyes, you would've thought that I'd been seducing her for hours.

"Please," I answered ardently. Nevertheless I couldn't stop. While she summoned the check, I asked, "What do you remember about Saturday when Bernie was killed? You were in the lobby, weren't you? Talking to Sternway and Lacone?"

"That's right." She didn't push the question away.

"Alex had asked me to meet him, but he didn't really have anything to discuss. He just pretended he did. He doesn't take me seriously as a professional, I mean. All he wants is a chance to stand close and proposition me." She shrugged.