"Thought she might be working late."

"Maybe, but not this shift. Tomorrow she might be in."

"I want to find her now."

"You got that in common with a lot of guys, but I can't help you." He sounded all broken up about it, heaving a sigh and giving me the bracing benefit of the raw onions in his dinner. He made it easier by looking me square in the eye, daring me to start something.

smiled and leaned in closer. "Listen to me, this is very important..."

Like I said, sometimes it can be fun. A minute later I had Barb Steler's home address straight from their personnel files and the advice that she wouldn't be there, but in a boozer down the street called Marty's.

"What's she look like?"

"You'll know her. Only real broad in the joint."

I thanked the man and told him to go back to his meal and forget he ever saw me.

He did so, and by the time he shook it enough to be able to notice me again I was out the door.

Marty's was a dark, comfortable place, and its proximity to the tabloid offices must have made it the main watering hole for the workers there. One of the deep, padded leather booths was loaded with a group swapping lies over their drinks. I could tell they were newsmen a mile off because I used to do the same thing. A big brown case on the floor identified at least one of them as a photographer. They'd sooner be hanged than part with their Speed Graphics, on or off duty.I was about to ask the bartender for help when I saw Barb Steler. Her co-worker had been right when he said I'd know her, and it wasn't just because she was the only woman in the place. No mental image I had conjured would have fit the reality.

She was in the booth with the boys, blowing cigarette smoke with the best and holding her own in the conversation. She wore a severely tailored suit, a mannish hat, and a worldly expression. Her bronze eyes were very large and predatory rather than vulnerable. Her skin was the palest I'd ever seen, but didn't look unhealthy. It set off her short jet black hair and generous bright red mouth.

I must have been gaping; she saw me and those seeking eyes flicked up and down and then turned to one of her party.

"Friend of yours, Taylor?" she drawled in a husky voice that could carry. She had meant it to do so.

Taylor gave me a once-over and shook his head. "You got a problem, buddy?"

"Barb Steler?" I said, making it less of a question than a statement. I ignored Taylor because I hate drunks.

"Give the kid a nickel," said Taylor, and got a chorus of approval from the audience.

"Who wants to know?" she asked.

"My name's Jack Fleming and I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"You and half of Chicago," added Taylor. More hilarity.

"About what?" There was a hint of a smile, but it was a distant hint.

"I'd rather not say." Weak, but it was the best bait I could come up with under the circ.u.mstances. The way I'd said it indicated I had something interesting to tell and that she might not want to share it with her gin-soaked colleagues.

She tilted her head to one side, studying me with amus.e.m.e.nt. I studied her right back and she didn't seem to mind.

Taylor got impatient at all the eye play. "Ya want us to throw the b.u.m out, Barb?"

This didn't speed up her decision; she'd already made it by then, but it did give her an excuse to act. She gestured with one hand, the way queens do when they wave at their subjects, and d.a.m.ned if every one of the guys there didn't give way to it. Two of them made haste to clear the booth so she could slide out.

I expected her to be tall; it had to do with her long, graceful neck and the way she moved. Again, I thought of royalty.

The boys were watching us with some resentment. She knew it but left the next move to me. I tried a cool but polite smile and nodded at some empty booths at the far end of the joint. She matched the smile and preceded me slowly, giving me plenty of time to evaluate the body under the suit. There wasn't a thing wrong with it.

She eased into a booth and I took the other side, facing her.

"Drink?" she asked.

"What would you like?"

"It was an offer, not a request."

"Thanks, but I'll take a rain check. You need anything?"

"Not to drink, no. What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Fleming?"

"Last January did you cover the story on Celia Adrian's suicide?"

"Among others. Why do you ask?"

"I was interested in why your paper maintained that it might not have been suicide."

The amus.e.m.e.nt spread from her huge eyes down to her mouth. She had absolutely perfect teeth. "Because a simple suicide does not sell papers."

"And courting a libel suit does?"

"Of course." Her cigarette burned out and she made a point of thoroughly crushing the b.u.t.t in the table ashtray. "Now, why are you so interested in such old news? Surely you're not a lawyer?"

"No, I'm a journalist. I'm working on a book about famous unsolved cases and I thought the Adrian thing might be something to look into."

"It sounds very ambitious."

"It fills in the time."

"What paper do you work for?"

I gave her the name. "Except I don't work for them anymore. I came into a legacy, decided to quit and go free-lance." It was the truth, more or less. I was a crummy liar.

"Aren't you the lucky one? That's a New York paper... Why are you out here?"

"Because this is where the story happened. What can you tell me about it that didn't get past the editor?"

She made a business of lighting another cigarette and blowing the smoke from her nose. It was quite leisurely and gave her plenty of time to think. "Very little, really. It was a fairly simple case, as I remember, but this was months ago. You probably know more about what I wrote than I do if you've been into the old files."

"I guess so, but that's not quite the same as listening to someone who's been there. What were your impressions of Alex Adrian?"

"The husband? He hardly left any."

Somehow it was oddly comforting to know I wasn't the only bad liar in the world.

Her answer complicated things, but I had all night. "Too bad, I was really interested in hearing something solid. I guess I can check the police records tomorrow."

"Yes, there's always tomorrow, isn't there?" She was smiling again and part of me felt like a lone fish in a shark tank.

"I suppose I should leave you and let you get back to your friends."

"They can wait, Mr. Fleming."

"My name is Jack."

"I know, and mine is Barb." She locked those wonderful eyes onto mine again.

This opened things up for a little flirting, but not much-she was a very decisive woman. She stood up soon after and went back to the boys long enough to toss a dollar on the table to cover her drink, and we left together.

"Think she'll let this one live out the night?" Taylor muttered to the others as the door closed behind us.

The pretext we'd established between ourselves was for me to give her a ride home. We walked to my car and I helped her in; it was all very formal and polite. I never liked playing games like that, but this time I didn't mind because I wanted her information.

She had a nice apartment in a nice building. Thankfully she didn't pause at the door for more games on whether she should let in me or not. She opened it and let me make up my own mind and smiled again as I let it snick shut behind me.

"I suppose you think I'm fast?" she said, tugging at the lingers of her black kid gloves. She tossed the empties onto a chair along with her purse and hat.

"I think you know what you want," I returned.

She vanished into the kitchen and I heard the clink of ice on gla.s.s. When she came out the top few b.u.t.tons of her coat were undone, revealing a little more milk white skin. Her very short hair and the harsh lines of her suit perversely emphasized her femininity. It was the same kind of effect Marlene Dietrich got in a tuxedo.

She handed me a gla.s.s heavy with ice and bourbon. "Bottoms up?"

It was less a toast than an invitation. She sipped, watching me over the rim, then eased onto her couch and watched me some more. I let my lips touch the edge of the gla.s.s and was hard put to hide the spasm of rejection my stomach sent up.

"You don't have to have it if you don't like it." Innuendo was her specialty.

"Thanks." I placed it on a low table and sat next to her. We weren't quite touching.

She put down her drink and rested her arm along the back of the couch, her fingers lightly rubbing the fabric of my coat. "You know, most men your age would either be all over me at this point or rushing out the door in a desperate attempt to preserve their virtue."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Neither, that's why you're here. You act older than you look."

"Maybe I am."

"Are you really a journalist?"

"Not anymore."

"Perhaps you thought by coming here I might talk a little more freely about Alex Adrian?"

I laughed a little. "Not much gets past you."

"No, indeed. I'm afraid you'll find me quite useless, as I've nothing to tell you.

Nothing at all."

We had moved closer together somehow. "That's too bad."

Her mouth curled. "What would your girlfriend think if she saw you like this?"

"Who says I've got a girlfriend?"

"I do. I can smell her perfume on you. Winter Rose. It's very expensive."

She pressed the length of her body against mine, and I won't lie and say she wasn't having her effect on me. My symptoms were familiar enough: tunnel vision, heightened hearing and smell, and of course my upper canines were pushing themselves out of their retractable pockets. Mixed in with Bobbi's perfume and Barb's perfume was the all-too-tantalizing scent of blood. I stopped breathing but couldn't shut out its soft rumble as it surged through the veins in her throat.

She sensed at least part of what was happening to me and brought her lips around to cover mine. It lasted only an instant and left the possibility open for more if I wished it. I did, but pulled back.

"You don't have to do this."She smiled with infinite patience. "How many times do I have to convince a man that it's not a question of 'have to'? I want to and that should be enough. Now lie back and enjoy yourself." And she pushed herself against me a little and started undoing my tie.

I let things go until she stopped to smile at me again. She slipped into it easily; it was so subtle I was only aware she was under by the slightly glazed look in her bronze eyes. Her hands dropped away and her head went sleepily back, drawing the skin tight over her unblemished throat. I stroked it gently, feeling the vein working under my fingers and noting the soft warmth with a great deal of regret.

Getting to my feet, I walked around the living room until things settled down internally. A few gulps of fresh air from an open window helped clear my head and before long my teeth were back in their place again. Barb Steler was one of the most desirable women I'd ever met, and I certainly wanted her, but she wasn't Bobbi and there was no way in the world that I would ever intentionally hurt either of them.

With that firmly in mind I went back to the couch and sat next to her. Her eyes were wide open, but she was asleep, and taking no notice of me now.

"Barb, close your eyes and think back to last January. I want you to tell me about the story you did on Alex Adrian."

Her eyes drifted shut. It was more for my comfort than hers, because I hate that empty look they get.

"Tell me about Alex Adrian."

Her face twisted. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

For a second I wondered if she was talking about him or me, but she was still safely under. "Why is he a b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"He doesn't love me."

I didn't quite whistle. "You love him?"

She made a low noise in her throat. That was one question she didn't want to answer.

"Okay, never mind. Where did you first meet him?"

"Paris."

"When he was a student there?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."