"Consider it done," Wolfe said. "Mrs. Delaney, there's food and a bar in the back. Bring you something?"

"I'll come with you," she said. "I'm supposed to circulate. Orders."

"Your husband trusts you?" the lieutenant said, turning his raffish smile on Delaney.

"Yes, he does," Monica said. "Damn it."

"Edward X. Delaney!" came the gurgling laugh, and the Chief turned slowly to face Belle Sarazen. She was sleek as a steel rod, silvery hair flat and gleaming, whippy body molded in a metallic sheath that could have been sprayed on.

"What's the X. stand for?" she demanded.

"Marks the spot," he said, the "joke" he had repeated all his life without humor or even lightness.

"You two boys whipsawed me, didn't you?" she said, showing her Chiclet teeth.

He inclined his head.

"Clever," she said, looking at him curiously now. "And I fell for it. I thought I was smarter than that."

"So did I," he said.

She laughed and clutched his arm to her hard breasts.

"Want to meet anyone?" she asked.

"No, thanks," he said. "But I'd like to see the paintings."

"The paintings?" A burlesque leer of cynical disbelief. "Who comes to these things to look at paintings?"

"Mrs. Maitland," Sergeant Boone said. "Nice to see you again. May I present Rebecca Hirsch?"

The women looked at each other.

"My son, Ted," Alma Maitland said. "Miss Hirsch. Sergeant Boone of the New York Police Department."

Ted Maitland stared at them, not speaking.

"We're trying to see the paintings," Boone said. "But the crowd ..."

"What do you think of them?" Rebecca asked Ted Maitland.

He glared at her with something close to hatred.

"You wouldn't understand," he said.

Chief Delaney bulled his way toward the wall. Finally, the mob thrust him close. He was pressed into one of the small, three-sided alcoves. Three paintings. Each, he noted, signed carefully at the bottom righthand corner: VICTOR MAITLAND, 1978. The signature surprised him. Not the flamboyant script he expected, but neat, bookkeeper's handwriting in black print. Name and date. Almost legalistic in its precision and legibility.

Three views of what was obviously the same model: front, back and profile. Exhibited together, the effect was of seeing her in the round, of grasping all. A heavily fleshed, auburn-haired woman. Sulky eyes. Sullen mouth. Tension of fury in clenched fists, muscled thighs. She jutted from the canvas, challenging.

"Look at the impasto," someone said. "A hundred bucks' worth of paint there."

"It'll be crackled in a year," someone said. "He never would let it dry properly. Take the money and run."

"Dynamic dysphoria," someone said. "The furious Earth Mother. The son of a bitch could draw. But strictly exogenous. I can resist it-and her."

"You better, dearie," a woman said. Brittle laugh. "They'd have to peel you off the ceiling."

Delaney half-listened. He stared at the defiant nude. He heard the mumbles of smart talk. He saw only life caught and held in vibrant colors that jangled the eye and forced him to see what he had never seen before.

"You like?" Jake Dukker asked, thrusting his head around to peer into Delaney's face. "I know the model. Bull dyke."

"Is she?" Delaney said. "She's beautiful. He caught the anger."

"And the box," Dukker laughed. "Look at that castrating box. You find the girl yet? The young girl in the drawings?"

"No," Delaney said. "Not yet."

"I saw you come in with Delaney," Belle Sarazen said. "You his wife?"

"Yes. Monica Delaney. You must be Belle Sarazen."

"Oh, you know?"

"My husband described you. He said you were very beautiful."

"Well, aren't you nice, sweetie. And did he tell you all about me?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. My husband never discusses his cases with me."

"Too bad. I imagine it could be exciting in bed with a cop. Listening to him talk."

"It's exciting even if he doesn't talk."

"See you around, kiddo."

"Nice to see you again, Miss Maitland," Abner Boone said. "Is your mother here, too?"

"Around somewhere," Emily Maitland said breathlessly. "My land, isn't this just fascinating? I love it!"

"Love the paintings?"

"Those, too. Vic was such a naughty boy! But this crowd! The famous people! Have you ever seen such beautiful people?"

"Men or women?" he asked.

"All of them," she sighed. "So grand and skinny."

"Did you drive down?" the sergeant asked, wishing she had not worn that shattering flowered muumuu.

"Oh yes," she said, looking about with wide, shining eyes. "We always drive down."

"When you had lunch and dinner with your brother?" he pressed. "You drove?"

"Oh look!" she breathed. "That gorgeous man in the velvet suit and ruffled shirt. The devil!"

"Would you like to meet him?" Boone asked. "I know him. I'll introduce you."

"Would you?" she gasped. "Maybe he'll let me take him home to Nyack and keep him under a belljar."

Abner Boone looked at her.

"Having a good time, dear?" Edward X. Delaney asked. "Did you get a drink? Some caviar?"

"I'm doing fine," Monica assured him. "I know what you mean about his paintings, Edward. They're very strong, aren't they? They're sort of ..."

"Of what?" he asked.

"A little crazy?" she said cautiously.

"Yes," he agreed. "A little crazy. He wanted to know it all, have it all, and show it. That way he could own it."

She wasn't sure what he meant.

"I met Belle Sarazen," she said.

"And ... ?

"Very sexy. Very hard. Bitchy."

"Could she kill?"

Monica looked at him queerly.

"I think so," she said slowly. "She's very unhappy."

"No," he said. "Just greedy. Will you do me a favor?"

"Of course. What?"

"See that young fellow over there? Under the spiral staircase? Alone? That's Ted Maitland. Victor's son. Go talk to him. Tell me what you think."

"Could he ... ?"

"You tell me."

"Talked to Saul," Lieutenant Wolfe said, grinning. The crowd shoved him tightly against Delaney.

"Oh?" Delaney said, smiling broadly in return. Two friends laughing, enjoying a joke.

"He says he works with Sarazen, like half the dealers on Madison Avenue. She finds buyers. Here and in Europe. Takes ten percent."

"From the dealer or the artist?"

"You kidding? The artist, of course. No dealer's going to reduce his take."

"So they worked together on Maitland's stuff?"

"Occasionally. He says."

"Mooch around, will you, lieutenant? Maybe she and Maitland were cutting him out."

"Oh-ho. Like that, was it?"

"Could be."

"I'll see what I can dig. By the way, I may run away with your wife."

"I'd mind," Delaney said. "Great cook. Come up for dinner?"

"You say when."

Boone put his back against the wall. He held his glass of ginger ale chest-high, stared with a vacant smile. Guests pushed by, stepped on his toes, slopped his drink. He paid no attention; he was watching Saul Geltman and the Maitlands, mother and daughter. The agent had the two women crowded into a corner. He was speaking rapidly, gesturing. Emily was listening intently, head lowered. Dora seemed out of it, leaning back, swaying, eyes closed.

To the sergeant, it looked as if Geltman were trying to sell them something. He was almost spluttering in his eagerness to convince. He took hold of Dora's shoulder, shook it gently. Her eyes opened. Geltman moved closer and spoke directly into her face. Her hand, clenched into a fist, rose slowly. For a moment, Boone thought she was going to hit the agent: punch him in the mouth or club him on the head. But Emily Maitland grabbed her mother's arm, soothed her, took hold of the menacing hand. She pried the fist open, straightening the fingers, smiling, smiling, smiling ...

"Chief!" a harried Saul Geltman said. "Glad you could make it. You've met Mrs. Dora Maitland? Victor's mother?"

"I've had that pleasure," the Chief said, bowing. "A pleasure again, ma'am. A beautiful show. Your son's paintings are magnificent."

"'Nificent," she nodded solemnly.

Zonked, Delaney thought. Boone was right: she's on the sauce.

"Pardon me a moment," Saul Geltman said. "The critics. Photographers. It's going well, don't you think?"

He turned away. Delaney grabbed his arm, pulled him back.

"One quick question," he said. "Did you have a contract with Maitland?"

Geltman looked at him, puzzled. Then his face cleared, and he laughed.

"No contract," he said. "Not even a handshake. He could have walked away any time he wanted to. If he thought I wasn't doing a good job. Sometimes artists jump from dealer to dealer. The second-raters looking for instant success. Gotta run ..."

He disappeared. Delaney steadied Mrs. Maitland with a firm hand under her elbow. He steered her skillfully, got her against a wall. A waiter passed, and Delaney lifted a glass of something from his tray. He folded Dora Maitland's fingers around it. She stared at it blearily.

"Scotch?" she said.

"Whatever," he said. "How I enjoyed my visit to your lovely home."