She began reaching high overhead, then bending deeply from the hips to touch the floor. But not with her fingertips; her palms. He could see then what a slender, whippy body she had. No excess anywhere. He recalled with pleasure a line from an old movie he had enjoyed. Spencer Tracy looking at Katharine Hepburn: "Not much meat on her, but what there is, is cherce."

"Then you know I killed my husband," Belle Sarazen said casually. "My first husband. Four husbands ago. A tragic accident."

"Yes, I know of it."

"Tell me, Edward X. Delaney," she said mockingly, "if you had been investigating that, what would you have done?"

"My usual routine," he said coldly, tiring of her flippancy. "First, I would have checked to see if your husband really was out drinking with the boys that night. Or was he with another woman? Or if not that night, then any other night? Was there another woman in his life, or more than one other woman, that would make you jealous enough to blow away an intruder without yelling, 'Who's there?' or screaming or maybe just firing your shotgun into the ceiling to scare him away?"

"What time is it?" she asked suddenly.

Abner Boone glanced at his watch.

"Almost ten-thirty, Belle," he said.

"Close enough," she said. "That's my daily hour devoted to the carcass."

She stopped exercising. Came toward them. Turned on a floor lamp (with a blood-red shade). Bent forward to shake the Chief's hand.

"Edward X. Delaney," she said. "A pleasure. Scarecrow, good to see you again. I have this pitcher of champagne and orange juice waiting for me. A reward for my labors. Somewhat flat, which is good for little girls in the morning. Anything for you boys? Coffee?"

"That would be appreciated," Delaney said. "You, sergeant?"

Boone nodded. They watched her push a button and speak into a small intercom on the bedside table. No one said anything until the manservant entered bearing a silver tray with coffee pot, sugar bowl and creamer, two cups, saucers, spoons. She poured for them. They both refused sugar and cream. Delaney leaned forward to examine the tray.

"Handsome," he said. "Very old, isn't it?"

"So I understand," she said carelessly. "Daddy said it belonged to Thomas Jefferson-but who knows? Listen to Virginians, and Thomas Jefferson must have owned six thousand silver serving trays."

She folded down onto the floor at their feet. Went down without putting a hand out to aid her. She sat in the Lotus Position, back straight, knees bent and legs crossed so tightly that each foot rested on the opposite thigh, soles turned almost straight up. She sipped from a champagne glass that had not lost a drop during her descent.

"Yoga," she said. "Ever try it?"

"Not me," Delaney said. "You, sergeant?" he asked solemnly.

"No sir."

"Keeps the spine flexible," she said. "Puts pow in the pelvis. Improves performance." She winked at them.

Delaney could see her triangular face clearly now. High cheekbones-Indian blood there?-tight skin, somewhat slanted eyes widely spaced. Open, astonished eyes. Thin lips extended a bit above the skin line with rouge to give the impression of soft fullness. Hard chin. Small ears revealed by the short, flat silvered hair. Thin nose, patrician, with oval nostrils. Not a wrinkle, mark, or imperfection. She felt Delaney's stare.

"I work at it," she said laconically.

"You succeed," he assured her, and meant it.

"You want to know about Victor Maitland," she said, more of a statement than a question. "Again?"

"Not really," Chief Delaney said. "I want to know about Jake Dukker. What's your personal opinion of him?"

He noted, with some satisfaction, her small start of surprise. He had her off-balance.

"Jake Dukker," she repeated. "Well, Jake is an artist."

"We know that."

"Very facile, very competent. You cops are lucky he never decided to become a forger. Jake can copy anyone's style. Rembrandt, Picasso, Andy Warhol ... you name it."

"Could he copy Victor Maitland?"

"Of course he could. If he wanted to. But why should he? Jake does very well indeed doing his own thing."

"Which is?"

"Whatever's selling. Superficial stuff. Very trendy. As soon as something shows signs of making money, Jake gets in on it. Abstracts, Calligraphy, Pop-Art, Op-Art, Photo-Realism-he's been into it all. You know what he's doing now? You'll never guess. Not in a million years. A nude of me painted on aluminum foil. Ask him to show it to you. Fan-tas-tic. It's not finished yet, but it's already sold."

"Who bought it?" Sergeant Boone asked quickly.

"A friend of mine," she said, taking a sip of her drink. "A very important man."

"Do you model frequently?" Delaney asked.

She nodded. "Mostly nudes. I enjoy it. Painters and photographers." She looked down at her body, stroked her small, hard breasts, ribs, waist, hips, her bare thighs. "Not a bad bod for a thirty-five-year-old chippy-right, men? I have this friend who wants to make a plaster cast of my body. The whooole thing. But I'm not sure I want to. I understand it gets hot as hell while that plaster is hardening. Is that right?"

"I wouldn't know," Chief Delaney said. "Did you ever model for Victor Maitland?"

"No," she said. "Never. I wasn't his type. His type of model, I mean. He liked the zoftigs. Big tits, big ass. He said I was the Venus of the Computer Age. That's what Jake Dukker is going to call his aluminum-foil nude of me: Venus of the Computer Age."

"Could Dukker have killed Maitland?" Delaney asked directly.

Again he rocked her. He decided this was the way to do it: keep her off-balance, switch from one topic to another before she could get set. If he followed a logical train of thought, she'd be two questions ahead of him.

"Jake?" she said. "Jake Dukker kill Maitland?"

That was what people did when they wanted time to think: they repeated the question.

"Maybe," she said. "They were friends, but Victor had something Jake will never have. It drove him ape."

"What was that?"

"Integrity," she said. "Old-fashioned word, but I'll bet you just dote on old-fashioned words, Edward X. Delaney. Jake is the better painter. Listen, I know painting, I really do. God knows I've screwed enough artists. Jake is better than Maitland was. Technically, I mean. And as fast. But Victor didn't give one good goddamn what was in fashion, the fads, what was selling. I tell you this, and I know for a fact: if Victor Maitland had never sold a painting in his life, he wouldn't have changed his style, wouldn't have stopped doing what he wanted to do, what he had to do. Jake isn't like that at all, and can never be. He hated Victor's integrity. Hated it! At the same time he wanted it, wanted it so bad it drove him right up a wall. I know it. He told me once and started crying. Jake likes to be spanked."

That stopped them. They didn't know if she meant it literally or metaphorically. Delaney decided not to press it.

"Sergeant Boone tells me you admitted you were intimate with Victor Maitland."

"'Intimate with Victor Maitland,'" she mimicked. "You sound like daddy. I always did have a thing for older men. All my shrinks have told me I'm a father-fucker at heart. Sure, I balled Victor. I wish he had bathed more often, but sometimes that can be fun, too. What a savage!"

"And he paid you?"

"He gave me gifts, yes," she said, unconcerned.

"Money?"

"Mostly. Once a small painting, which I sold for ten thousand."

"You didn't like it?"

"The painting? I loved it. A little still life. A single poppy in a crystal bud vase. But I liked those long, green still lifes even better."

"Did you tell Maitland you had sold his painting?"

"Of course."

"What was his reaction?"

"He thought it was funny as hell. He said I got more for it than Geltman would have."

"Apparently Maitland was a generous man."

"He wasn't cheap," she acknowledged.

Delaney rubbed his chin, squinting through the French doors. The mist was burning away. He could see fuzzy shadows forming on the tiled terrace.

"Did you ever procure women for Maitland?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence, brief, heavy.

"Procure," she said. "I don't like that word. I suggested models for him occasionally. Girls I thought he could use. His type."

"He paid you for this-this service?"

"Of course. Don't worry, Edward X. Delaney; I declared it all on my tax return. I'm clean."

"I'm sure you are," he said blandly. "Let's get on to the Friday he was killed. You said you left here about ten-thirty and went to your yoga class for an hour."

"Yoga and meditation," she said. "For twenty minutes we sit naked on the floor and go, 'Ooom.'"

"After that you went to Jake Dukker's studio on Central Park South. Did you pose for the aluminum-foil nude then?"

"No, Jake was setting up for a photo session. He's a photographer, too, you know, and a good one. Mostly fashion. He's in Vogue and Town & Country all the time. I sat around kibitzing until they broke for lunch."

"That was at twelve? Or thereabouts?"

"Thereabouts."

"And then?"

"Then Jake and I went upstairs to his apartment. He's got a duplex, you know. Jake made lunch for us. He thinks he's a great gourmet cook. He's lousy. I lived in Paris, and I know. He made an herb omelet that was barely edible. But he had a nice chilled Spanish white. I filled up on that."

"And did you have relations?"

She looked at him blankly.

"Sexual relations," he said. "While you were up in his apartment? Before, during, or after lunch?"

"You know," she said, "you're not going to believe this, but I don't remember. I really don't."

"I believe you," he said. "After all, it was six weeks ago."

She laughed her trilling laugh, up and down the scale.

"Oh, Edward X. Delaney," she said. "You're a sly one, you are. All right, I remember that awful herb omelet, but I don't remember if we screwed. Probably not."

"Why 'Probably not'?"

"Because his assistants and the fashion models were waiting for him downstairs. And the models get paid by the hour. Jake is all business."

"Even in his painting?"

"You better believe it, buster. If the Hudson River School ever comes back into style, Jake will be sitting out there on the Palisades, painting the river and trees and clouds and Indians in canoes."

"So then, after lunch, you and Dukker went downstairs to the studio, and he resumed shooting that photography assignment at about one-thirty. Is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"How late did you stay?"

"Oh, for another hour or so. I had an appointment at the hairdresser's."

"How many models were involved in this photography session at Dukker's?"

"I don't remember."

"One?"

"No, two or three, I guess."

"Perhaps four? Or five?"

"There could have been," she said. "Is it important?"

"What were they modeling?"

"Lingerie."

"Why did you attend? Photography shootings are usually boring, aren't they?"

She shrugged. "I just dropped by to kill a few hours. Before my appointment."