"Sergeant Berry," said a man.

Whitey snapped the phone back in its cradle.

Beep.

Buzz, buzz. And Rimsky. What was he doing on Roger's computer? Whitey remembered Rimsky: a guard on his cell block, a shit disturber, which was what they called the ones who made a little extra effort during the cavity searches. And now here he was on Roger's computer. Member that guy I was telling you about? When? Telling who? Rimsky, on Roger's computer. Connections. Connections all over the place, past and present. Yes: past and present, an expression he'd heard before, and now understood a little better. One thing for sure, it was all about-yes! talk about connections-masters and puppets, and the goddamn thing was, the thing that made him want to puke up all that vodka and peanut butter-and he almost did-the goddamn thing was- Whitey heard something over the buzzing, a mechanized, metallic rumble. The garage door. He rose, listening hard. A car door closed beyond the far wall. They were home, home from the . . . funeral. And he knew whose funeral it must have been. Connections. His mind was making them like never before. But what did it add up to? What was the complete picture? He needed time to think, but- Footsteps: hard shoes on the cement floor of the laundry room, coming his way. He looked around wildly-no, not wildly, stay cool, stay cool-and saw another door, at the end of the row of filing cabinets. He hurried across the room, but quiet, quiet and cool, opened the door: a small room, cold and musty, with a single street-level window, not blacked-out but very dirty, and shadowy objects inside. Trunks, beach umbrellas, a woodpile. Beep. Whitey went in, closed the door silently, knelt behind the woodpile. An earthen floor: common in basements where he came from, but strange to find in a house like this. And there was something hard under his knee. He reached down, freed it, picked it up-an ax.

"Joe Savard of the Lawton police calling for Nora Levin. Missed you at Anne Franklin's funeral today, would like to talk. Please get back to me at one of the following numbers."

Roger entered HQ, glanced at the computer screen. Times of London puzzle up-one across, strengthening, eight letters: roborant, no doubt-saw some illiterate conversation taking place, switched off the machine. Think, he commanded, and the marvelous brain responded without hesitation.

Two problems: Francie and Whitey, once conjoined in an elegant solution, now separating fast like particles that had failed to collide. Of the two, Whitey presented by far the more unknowns, variables, intangibles, unless he was frozen solid in the woods, and that would be lucky, and he, Roger, had always had rotten luck.

So, Francie, less unknown, less variable, less intangible, first. Soon she would be home, despondent. Funeral day: the atmosphere would never be better for the ending he had improvised, but the details had to be right, had to be in character, had to be her. Would she leave a note? No, not her style at all. No note. That made it easier. And what of the method itself? Suitable, fitting, Francie. Nothing messy, nothing violent, nothing brilliant. He heard a faraway beep. The answering machine. He ignored it: wouldn't be for him.

Where was he? Nothing messy, nothing violent, nothing brilliant-something feminine, something that would make her weeping friends agree, Yes, that was Francie, all the way.

The problem having been properly framed, the answer came at once: gas. Gas, of course. Gas was feminine. Gas was her.

What gas? CO.

CO. Roger pictured the molecule in his mind, a simple thing, not particularly attractive but sturdy, like a reliable peasant. CO-odorless, colorless, plentiful. And so simple, like one of those schoolboy science projects that never failed: insert subject in garage, close doors, run fossil-fuel-burning internal combustion engine, wait outside.

The details, the adjustments: his brain sketched those in without any active direction from him. Difficult to persuade or trick the subject into inserting herself into the garage for the requisite time, of course, but neither was it necessary, the only necessity being that her body be found there. Much easier to perform the operation elsewhere-her bedroom, say, while she slept-and then transfer the end result to the garage when convenient. After that, the performer of the operation had merely to open the bedroom windows for an hour or two, and then the garage doors as well, perhaps screaming a desperate plea into the alley-would a trashman come running?-those procedures to be followed by the frantic call to 911, punctuated with a cough or two. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Oh, to have a brain like this, to never know boredom.

Beep.

Gas, generated in garage, required in second-floor bedroom. How was gas transported? By pipeline, of course. At one stage of his life he'd done rather well in pipeline stocks; was it his fault that Thorvald had bungled the timing when he'd finally persuaded them to jump in with both feet? His mind stuck for a moment, stuttering on Thorvald, and he had to give it a little push, to remind it of the coming insurance settlement, sale of the house, the art-the Arp alone worth a tidy sum-and then Rome, or some other rosy future.

His mind got back to work. Pipeline. A garden hose was a pipeline, connectable to the gas outlet, in this case an automobile tailpipe, with tape, duct or electrical, both of which were available on the premises. How many feet of hose were required, from garage, upstairs to kitchen, around corner, up stairs, down hall, under bedroom door? One hundred? One hundred and twenty? Also available on the premises: several garden hoses, mutually attachable, were kept in the garage. Correction: not in the garage but closer at hand, in the storage room directly adjacent to HQ.

To begin: inspection of equipment. Roger opened the door to the storage room, went in, found three garden hoses coiled on one another in front of the woodpile. He paused for a moment, sniffed the musty air. What was that smell? Peanut butter? Impossible-no peanut butter in the storage room. He carried the hoses out and closed the door.

Roger inspected the hoses for punctures or tears, found none, screwed them together. Next? Fossil fuel supply. He went into the garage, checked the gauge on Francie's car-hers, not his; he would never make an error as fundamental as that-found it three-quarters full. Much more than enough. Next? Her bedroom windows. It was a cold night; they would be closed. Next? There was no next. That was it: a simple plan. The complicated part, the part that would ultimately be more persuasive than any forensics, was the psychology-in this case female psychology, believable in every detail. Despondency, despair, guilt, suicide: like train cars barreling down the track. No more thinking to be done. To pass the time, Roger sat at the computer and took a virtual tour of Rome, refreshing his memory.

35.

Francie walked all the way home, the wind at her back most of the time, arriving just after four under a rapidly darkening sky. She was no longer burning up, was probably cold, although she didn't feel it, numb inside and out. She'd been through everything, now knew Ned's alibi and why he was reluctant to use it, knew all but the where of it; knew, too, something of how it felt to be in Anne's position, with another woman, unseen, exerting force on her life like some orbiting body composed of dark matter. A powerful force that shook, unsettled, reduced: could reduce her to the state of Anne sobbing on her stool in the locker room, fallen completely apart. But Francie hadn't earned the right to be in that state, was the other woman, not the wife-in this case not even that, but the other other woman-and so any falling apart would be ridiculous, absurd, pretentious. And shameful: a feeling with which she was filled to the brim already. So although her mind was ready to start writhing with the kinds of questions that must have tormented Anne-had he really been working on such-and-such a night? how had they met, how had it begun? what did he tell her in bed? what did they do? the same things? different things? the same things better?-she couldn't allow it. Among other reasons, she owed Anne some dignity.

Francie went in the front door, stood in the hall. The house was dark, as always at this time of day in winter. She heard the refrigerator door close, heard the beep of the answering machine, crossed the shadowy living room to the flashing red light, pressed the button.

"Francie? Nora. I was going to swing by and ride out with you. Guess you've already left. See you there. God, I hate funerals, this one especially."

Francie reset the machine, stopped the beeping. She didn't call Nora,wasn't ready for that. What should she tell her? Everything? Why not? Was there any reason to go on keeping Ned's secrets? No. She thought of Savard-he had heard Ned's alibi, knew that secret, but hadn't told her. Ned's second secret: did its burden, too, sometimes grow intolerable, demand to be flaunted? Francie's memory readied the image seen through a keyhole. She closed her inner eye to it, or tried to, and returned to Savard. There was no reason he should have told her-he probably operated on a need-to-know basis, and in this case had decided she didn't fit the category. But then she remembered the little nod he'd given her, twice.

Francie went upstairs, through her bedroom, into the bathroom, drew a deep bath, stripped off her funeral clothes, lay in the tub. If there was no reason to keep Ned's secrets, there was no reason not to tell Nora. Oh, she didn't want to do that. How could she and Nora ever be the same? But were they the same now? Not really. It was a sham. So Nora had to be told. Tomorrow, not today: she needed breathing room.

There was a knock at the door.

"Francie? Is that you in there?"

"Who else would it be, Roger?"

"Of course, of course. Just being pleasant. There's dinner, whenever you're ready."

"I'm not hungry."

"One must eat, Francie dear."

Francie went downstairs in her robe.

"In here," Roger called from the dining room.

She entered the dining room. He'd set two places at one end of the table. Candles, the good silver, his grandmother's Sevres."Champagne, Roger?"

"Why not? Life does go on. Here we are, the proof." He filled two glasses, clinked them together in a toast, handed one to her. He drank, peered at her over his glass."You look despondent, Francie."

"I'm all right."

"You'll feel much better after a little something." She sat down. "Isn't that what Winnie-the-Pooh used to say? A little something. Remember when the Latin translation came out? Winnie-Ille-Pu. Cute idea, wasn't it?"

"I don't remember, actually." But how she would have loved reading Winnie-the-Pooh to some child of her own. She took her first sip of the champagne, tasted nothing but the alcohol, downed half the glass in one swallow.

Roger raised the lid of a serving dish, revealing two plump and perfect omelettes. "An omelette sort of evening, don't you think?" he said, serving her.

Francie emptied her glass, refilled it. She began to feel, not better, simply less.

"Bon appetit," said Roger, cutting a good-sized bite from his omelette. He looked up. "How do they say it in Italian?"

"The same. Buon appetito."

"That's what I like about you, Francie. That flair." He chewed his omelette, patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin."How do you like it?"

Francie tried some. "I can't believe how good you are at this."

"Pshaw," he said,waving off the compliment,an awkward gesture that overturned his glass, which knocked down hers as well. "Shit," he said, rising abruptly, sopping up champagne with his napkin. He took the glasses, both broken, to the kitchen, returned with sponges, new glasses, another bottle. "Oh, well," he said, filling the glasses from the first bottle, uncorking the second, "accidents happen, do they not?"

Francie drank, refilled her glass from what was left in the first bottle.

Roger returned to his omelette, wielding knife and fork, silver clinking on china. "How went the tree-trimming?"

"What you'd expect."

"And Ned? It is Ned, isn't it-name never anchored itself in my mind, for some reason. How is he taking it?"

Francie rose, too abruptly, and something silver clanged to the floor."I'm sorry, Roger, I'm very tired. The dinner's very good, and it was . . . kind of you to prepare it, but I'm going to bed."

"I understand completely. Why don't you take the bottle with you?"

"Thanks. I think I will."

"Good night, then. Sleep well."

Francie went upstairs, taking the bottle and her glass, closed her door, got into bed, drank a glassful and then another. She put the glass on the bedside table and turned off the light.

Francie closed her eyes. No tears, just sleep, go numb. But first her mind tormented her with a parade of images: Ned in his kayak, Em on a skateboard, Anne at the net; Kira Chang. They faded when they'd had enough, and her last thoughts were of Roger: how nice he'd been, even considerate. She thought of going downstairs, inviting him up to lie with her. Would there be comfort in that, an omelette sort of thing? But no. And apartment hunting still began tomorrow.

"Mr.Savard? Nora Levin, returning your call."

"Thank you. I've got a few questions about the murder of Anne Franklin."

"I thought you had a suspect."

"We do. But I'm still puzzled about what she was doing at that cottage, and wondered if you had any ideas."

Pause. "No."

"Were you aware that she made an attempt to leave some clue about the murderer?"

"No."

"She wrote the word painting on the floor of the cottage. Does that mean anything to you?"

"I know she painted."

"I've checked all her paintings. I don't think that's what she meant. Is there some other painting she may have been referring to, a valuable one, perhaps?"

Silence.

"She wrote the word in her own blood, by the way," Savard added. "Painting."

He heard the woman inhale."I have one thought," she said. "But I'm not even sure what I saw, let alone whether it's relevant."

Roger finished eating, left the rest of his champagne untouched, cleared the table. He scraped the leavings into the garbage disposal, loaded the dishwasher, except for the champagne flutes and the Sevres, which he washed by hand, turned the machine on, using the energy-saver switch. He dried the glasses and the china, put them back in their cupboards, returned to the dining room and blew out the candles. Then he sat at the kitchen table and did nothing. The house was silent.

An hour later, by the clock, he rose, removed his shoes, went upstairs. He put his ear to Francie's door, listened, heard nothing. Francie had come through beautifully tonight, looking the part to perfection. Despondent, officer, if I had to put it in a word. I tried to cheer her up, but . . . Roger went into the guest bathroom at the end of the hall, returned with a towel, left it lying by the door. Then he started down to his basement HQ, where the pipeline project awaited.

First,like a surgeon, gloves. Then into the garage, the windowless garage, invisible. Roger stuck one end of the three linked garden hoses into the tailpipe of Francie's car. He secured the connection with duct tape, triple-wrapping the tape two or three feet along the hose, making it absolutely leakproof. He paused. Would used duct tape, found in the trash, say, constitute evidence, dangerous to him in any way? Probably not, but he made a note to ball up the remains afterward and melt them away on the stove, just to be safe. The hoses he would disconnect, recoil, put back in the storage room until spring. Anything else? No. He opened the door to Francie's car. Her key was in the ignition, where she always left it when parked in the garage, despite his every admonition. Taking hold of the key between gloved forefinger and thumb, Roger turned it, started the engine. He held the open end of the hose close to his face and felt a warm little breeze.

Then, out of the garage, up the stairs, uncoiling the hose, his mind making silent chortles as he went. First floor, through the kitchen, around into the first-floor hall, up the stairs, into the second-floor hall. He switched off the lights and walked softly to her door. About five or six feet of hose left: perfect.

Nora and Savard stood before the half-size wooden lockers in the corridor leading to the indoor courts at the tennis club.

"This one," Nora said.

"I'd need a warrant."

"And what if I did it?"

"That would be a crime."

"Arrest me," Nora said. She kicked in the locker.

Roger listened at the door again. Silence. Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Of course she was. Lethe, refuge of the guilty feminine mind. Now came the tricky part, the only tricky part, really. With the end of the hose in his left hand, he took the doorknob in his right and turned it slowly, very slowly, very silently, as far as it would go. Then, holding it there, he knelt and pushed the door open an inch, very slowly, very silently. He laid the end of the hose on the rug inside the bedroom, closed the door back over it, flattening the plastic only negligibly. Then, door closed, the turning back of the knob, very slowly, very silently. Done. Still kneeling, Roger rolled the towel he'd left there-to be laundered later in the unlikely event it retained gas residue-into a long sausage and aligned it firmly in the strip under the door. Done and done! Roger knelt in front of Francie's door for five full minutes, by his watch, and heard not a sound, not a whisper of a sound, from the other side. He rose at the end of the fifth minute precisely. How did they say "the end" in Italy? Oh, Roger: perfect, perfect, perfect.

And then the light went on.

"I get it," Whitey said.

Roger spun around.Whitey! There was Whitey filling the hall, crude stitches in his face, an ax in his hands. Any other relevant details? No. How did he get into the house, for instance? Roger's brain turned on him: not relevant, not relevant, not relevant. Let me think.

"I get it now," Whitey said.

Think.

But how, with that look in Whitey's eyes?

Think.

"Get ready to have your dreams twisted," Whitey said. Or some such gibberish. "You couldn't possibly 'get it,' Whitey."

"You must think I'm pretty dumb." Whitey took a step toward him.

"Not at all, not at all," Roger said, and what presence of mind, to keep his voice down like that. "You misunderstand me. The point, the salient point, Whitey, is that"-Yes! Brilliant! Back in control!-"we're both victims here."

"I'm nobody's victim," Whitey said, and took another step.

"Not victims in the sense you mean. I'm speaking metaphorically, if you will. The background is rather complex, but try to focus on the idea that everything can still work, surprisingly smoothly, even, if you-if we-keep our wits about us. The first step would be to switch that light back off."

Whitey did not. Neither did the look in his eyes disappear; in fact, it grew madder. "You set me up," he said.

"Oh, so that's it," said Roger. "Nothing could be further from the truth. But before I explain, I must ask you to keep your voice down."

Whitey did not. "There was no painting in the first place," he said.

"Certainly there was. I had it in my own hands at one stage in the proceedings." Think. What is the goal? To get that ax, to drive it through Whitey's skull. "What you must understand, what you've got to take on board, as it were, is that we've both been manipulated by a third party. Why don't we put down that implement, so out of place in a domestic setting like this, and go downstairs for a quiet discussion?" Drive it through Whitey's skull, and then through Francie's,aborting the CO procedure. An improvisation of an improvisation that could still work-his brain was already sketching in the adjustments.

Whitey's hands tightened on the handle; Roger saw the tendons pop out. "No one manipulates me," he said.