I'd already called in my apologies to Dr. Abramson, who wasn't the least miffed with me about the missed phone interview. Tossing around the words "blunt-force head trauma" garners one a lot of sympathy, I'd discovered. We decided to go ahead with the show on Jungian archetypes without any preparation. I could only hope that he'd be mildly entertaining in person and that we'd get some interesting questions and comments from the listeners.

"So did they get him?" Vera Mae asked a few minutes later in the break room. She poured me a cup of hazelnut coffee, and we decided to go over a printout of some of some of the listener e-mails. She pushed a box of Dunkin' Donuts at me and I ate half of a powdered old-fashioned.

And then I ate the other half. Plus a jelly donut. A bear claw was calling to me, but I managed to ignore its sugary little voice. Who says I have no self-control?

"Afraid not. I couldn't give much of a description, and one of my neighbors saw a car parked outside, but who knows? They may never figure out who did it." I went for a sugar cube and then poured a packet of Splenda into my coffee instead. Two donuts versus a packet of Splenda. If you do the math, it doesn't make any sense at all. "And the more interesting question is not who, but why? G.o.d knows there's nothing in my condo worth stealing."

"But maybe he didn't know that," Vera Mae said, resting her chin on her hands. "It was a he, right?"

I nodded. "I think so. Or it might have been a very strong woman. Someone tall with a powerful body build." I shuddered, remembering how the intruder had picked me up like a rag doll and tossed me against the wall.

"Well, the station is going to follow this closely. They're doing hourly updates."

"But there's nothing new to report. I haven't even talked to the police today." I'd been idly thinking about calling Rafe Martino but decided to wait another day. If he had any news, he would have gotten in touch with me. And I didn't want to get stuck shooting the breeze with Opie, who was probably better at hooking marlins than solving neighborhood robberies.

"This is Cypress Grove, honey. The break-in will be the talk of the town, trust me."

I'd called Vera Mae earlier that morning to fill her in on most of the details of the break-in. She'd told me the latest buzz. Cyrus wanted to feature the break-in as a Crime Watch Exclusive, "Talk Show Host Mugged and Robbed in Her Own Apartment!" I thought it was over the top, but he thought that my loyal viewers would be fascinated by the case and it would boost the ratings.

The reaction among the rest of the staff had been mixed. Big Jim Wilc.o.x had given me a speculative look as I checked my mailbox, probably wondering whether I had master-minded the break-in as a publicity stunt.

Twyla in Human Resources told me that if the break-in was related to my work at WYME, the station would consider picking up my medical bills. Since I had no idea who had hit me on the head, or why, I didn't expect to collect on her offer.

Irina shyly handed me a bunch of violets and a card when I walked past her desk. It read, "I was deluged to hear you were hit on head. Your faithful friend, Irina."

"Deluged? What do you think she means?" I asked Vera Mae, who read the note and giggled.

"Devastated? Or desolated? Something like that. Her heart's in the right place even if her English isn't up to par."

I picked through the phone messages. Nick Harrison, my reporter pal at the Cypress Grove Gazette, had called a few times. I zipped into my cubbyhole/office to call him back, and he told me he was already writing a front-page piece about the attack.

I scrambled in my briefcase while we chatted, trying to find my day planner. No luck. It was probably buried under the mountain of papers on the desk and stacked up against the wall. The office was a mess, but here's my defense: Being a radio talk show host--even in a small town like Cypress Grove--puts you on the radar screen of every publicist in south Florida. I got a ton of press kits and promotional materials every single day. I gave up on the day planner and turned my attention back to Nick.

"And it's going to appear above the fold," he was saying excitedly. Above the fold? Apparently getting thwacked on the head was big news in my small Florida town.

I asked Nick for an update on the guru investigation. He told me he'd already talked to Rafe Martino and learned there weren't any hot leads in the case. I guess the cops hadn't found fingerprints or any other "trace evidence," as Mom would say.

The cops had sent Lark's bottle of Calming Essence to a testing lab, but the results were inconclusive. They decided to send it to another lab in Miami for a.n.a.lysis. Guru Sanjay's cause of death was also inconclusive. Did he die of a head injury? Or did he die from ingesting something?

A lot of uncertainties, but one thing was sure. The bottom line was that Lark was still the key suspect. The only suspect.

The afternoon went rolling along. Vera Mae had announced a last-minute schedule change. At Cyrus's insistence, we were doing a surprise show: "It's a Jungle Out There: Hanging Tough in a Dangerous World." It was obvious Cyrus wanted to capitalize on the break-in in any way he could. As Cyrus says, "It's all about the numbers, baby."

So Vera Mae had run promos throughout the morning, inviting my listeners to call in with safety tips and home security products. It turned out to be a popular topic, and a lot of women asked me why I didn't carry pepper spray or a Taser gun.

"You could have Tasered him, sistah!" the first caller told me.

"Um, right," I agreed weakly. Except I don't own a Taser gun and I doubt I'd have the guts to actually zap someone with one.

The next caller said I should have used something more lethal, like a Beretta. And someone else swore by a Glock.

I had the sneaky feeling that my listeners thought I'd been way too pa.s.sive in the attack on my home and self. Maybe they've never been thwacked over the head in the dark, completely taken by surprise. At the end of the first hour, I was beginning to feel like a wuss.

"You should have gotten one of those cell-phone stun guns," Wanda from Boca said.

"Never heard of them," I admitted.

"Honey, you just whip out your cell phone, pretend you're making a call, and zap the guy like a bug. Nine hundred thousand volts and wham! He'll be crying like a baby."

"It has a built-in flashlight, and it comes in pink," Vera Mae offered helpfully. "It fits nicely in a f.a.n.n.y pack."

"You have a cell-phone stun gun?" I asked her at the break.

"I saw one in Soldier of Fortune." There was a touch of defensiveness in her tone. "Not that I would hesitate to buy one. I'm a sucker for gadgets."

I sipped my coffee as we went live again. It was obvious I was way behind the curve on the hottest trends in weapons.

Marlene from north Hollywood explained the concept of "pistol purses" to me. Pistol purses are leather shoulder bags with compartments for sungla.s.ses, cell phone, and oh, yeah, your trusty nine-millimeter Glock. It's the latest in don't-leave-home-without-it personal safety devices.

The hour was winding down when Gina, who refused to give her city, described a Stinger twenty-two one-shot hand-gun that folds in the middle to create a revolver. It's practically the size of a pocket comb when it's folded. Yowsers.

Who knew? Even Vera Mae's eyes widened at that one.

"They've all been watching too many Bronson movies," I said, slipping off my headphones at the end of my shift. "It sounds like half of Cypress Grove is packing heat. And the other half would like to."

"Well, I really enjoyed the show, except I have my doubts about that one-shot gun," Vera Mae said idly. "What if you don't get him on the first try? Then you'd have created a real problem for yourself." She scooped up the afternoon logs and headed for the billing department, where the logs would be recorded and the sponsors would be billed for their spots. "When the chips are down, give me a .38 anytime," she added over her shoulder.

"A .38?".

She nodded. "You bet. No mess, no fuss. Two in the head and you know he's dead."

I spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up some paperwork at the station, and it was nearly six thirty when I decided to call it a day. The sun was low in the sky, but the warm air was still rising off the blacktop, and the whole scene seemed to shimmer in the summer heat.

I opened the door to my red Honda Civic, wincing as my fingers touched the white-hot metal handle. I tossed my briefcase on the front seat and hesitated as a blast of hot air rushed out. It was like a broiler oven in there.

I waited a couple of minutes, then groped around under the seats to see whether the day planner had ended up there. No luck. It had to be back at the apartment or the office; those were the only two possibilities. Finally, I gave up the search and drove to Johnny Chen's for takeout with the AC cranked up as far as it would go.

I had just placed my order for three veggie lo meins when someone walked up quietly behind me. I must have been more strung out than I realized, because I felt my pulse jump. I sensed a warm body standing just a little too close to me, and my heart somersaulted.

I told myself to cool it. I was showing cla.s.sic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder: racing pulse, exaggerated startle reflex, shortness of breath. A textbook case. All the beginnings of a full-fledged panic attack were there, which shouldn't have come as a surprise to me.

My neurons were firing for no reason at all, and I was as jumpy as if a saber-toothed tiger were sprinting after me. A primitive fear response, but a dangerous one. I had to act fast and nip this glitch in my brain or it would take over my life.

Then the mystery person moved in even closer. I could practically feel his breath on my back. Was it the intruder back for another whack at me? The skin on the back of my neck tingled, and I whirled around, holding my straw tote bag in front of me like a shield.

I moved so fast, I nearly fell on top of him. My reptilian brain parts were in control, and all rational thought had vanished. My heart pounded as I connected with a powerful male body.

"Hey, easy, there. A little jumpy, are we?"

Rafe Martino.

Chapter 18.

I felt the breath go out of me in a single whoosh, and he reached out his hands to steady me. He was looking terrific as usual, tanned and handsome in a pale blue golf shirt and khaki pants. His grip was light but firm, and I could feel the heat of his body.

"Sorry, but you startled me." I felt like an idiot. My heartbeat kicked up a notch, and I wished I'd taken a few seconds to put on some lip gloss and drag a brush through my hair. "Ever since last night, I'm just not myself, you know?" I was talking too fast, babbling. Pressured speech, as the shrinks would say. A sure sign that I was rattled.

He nodded, keeping his gaze cool and level. "How are you feeling? You were really out of it in the ER last night. I wanted to ask you a few questions but we had another call on the west side of town. I have Officer Brown's report on my desk."

Officer Brown. It took me a beat to realize he was talking about Opie. "My head's still throbbing," I admitted. "They say I had a mild concussion and there's not really any treatment. So I guess I'll just have to wait it out. I may take a few days off from work."

Rafe smiled. "I noticed they're playing it up on WYME. Hourly bulletins."

"I know," I said, feeling a wash of embarra.s.sment. "They're laying it on pretty heavy. That's not my doing, believe me. That's all the fault of the news department. I guess it's a slow day for serial killers so they're going to concentrate on petty theft."

Rafe raised an eyebrow. "If that's what it was. Petty theft." Some other customers were crowding in behind us and we moved to a red leather banquette to wait for our orders. Had there really been something else behind the break-in last night? As always, Rafe was holding his cards close to his vest, as Vera Mae would say, and I tried to draw him out. "The only things missing are two candlesticks I picked up at an estate sale. What else could it be?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know." I tried to read his expression, but it was neutral, revealing nothing. We were sitting so close, I could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes and could sense the coiled readiness in his body. He always seemed watchful, alert, and I couldn't decide whether it was part of being a cop or just his personality style.

"Why would anyone go to the trouble of breaking in just to grab a couple of candlesticks that were worth what, a hundred bucks?" His voice was low, reasonable. He spread his hands in front of him. "That doesn't make sense to me."

I shrugged. "It doesn't make sense to me, either, but I don't have an answer. The criminal mind is a mystery," I said lightly.

"Even to you? I thought you handled a lot of forensic cases before you moved here."

"How did you--," I began, and then stopped abruptly. I was living with someone the Cypress Grove PD considered a prime suspect in Guru Sanjay's murder. So naturally he'd done a background check on me, and, knowing Rafe, it was a thorough one. "Yes, you're right. I did some forensic work as part of my practice back in Manhattan."

Rafe nodded as if this was old news to him. "I've dealt with a few forensic psychologists before." I waited. There was something dismissive in his tone, and I reminded myself not to show my annoyance. Maybe he was baiting me, maybe he was serious, but I wasn't going to fall into the trap of playing games with him. I had the feeling that Rafe Martino could outmaneuver me at every turn, and I was on my guard.

"As consultants on your cases?" I kept my voice deliberately neutral.

"The state brought them in. Sometimes the prosecutors like to bolster their cases by including some psychological twists about the criminal mind. So the shrinks get on the stand and try to tell the jury why it's plausible that this particular suspect could have committed this crime. Or if they're working for the other side, they tell you why the suspect couldn't possibly have committed the crime. You hear both opinions in the same courtroom about the same case. It's mind-boggling."

I could feel my blood pressure inch up a tic when he gave a dry laugh. "Is that so?"

Rafe went on, clearly on a roll--or a rant. "Since they're hired guns, they say whatever they're paid to say. They do a lot of tests and some mumbo jumbo and make a few hundred bucks an hour. And then they file a thirty-page report that no one ever reads. It's a racket."

"The reports are called psych evals," I said mildly. "Psychological evaluations."

"Yeah, that's it," he agreed, "psych evals. Our file cabinets are full of them. After a while, they all start to sound alike. And some of the profiles I've seen are really over the top. You find out that a serial killer likes peanut b.u.t.ter and drives a Subaru. Some meaningless facts that could apply to millions of people. It's just useless information that any wing nut could dream up."

Wing nut? If Martino was trying to bait me, he was getting nowhere. I knew I had to stay focused so I could work the conversation around to Lark and see whether he had any new evidence. "It doesn't sound like you have much respect for my profession." I tried to match his low, calm voice and kept my face expressionless.

"Psychology is no match for police work." His tone was blunt. "Psychobabble theories can't match hard evidence. And most of these forensic types have never had to get their hands dirty at a crime scene."

He was right on that one.

Compared to CSI investigators, who have to deal with grisly sights like bodies floating in the Everglades and people riddled with bullet holes, forensic psychologists have a cushy life. We can sit in an air-conditioned office doing personality tests and clinical interviews while they're out sweating in the field. We can charge a hefty fee for our services, whether we're doing our evaluations, writing our reports, or testifying in court. And Rafe was right. We get paid up front and we never get our hands dirty.

There's a lot of mental stress involved, especially in the court, where we're grilled by the opposing attorney, but at least n.o.body shoots at us.

The server at the counter called my lo mein order then, and I turned to Rafe. I decided to take a chance and blurt out what was really on my mind: Was Lark just a person of interest or a prime suspect? I took a deep breath and plunged in. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

"Is there anything new on the investigation into Guru Sanjay's death?" As soon as the words were out, I had the sinking feeling he wasn't going to give me anything. A long beat pa.s.sed between us while I locked eyes with him.

The restaurant suddenly seemed hot and noisy, and I had the mother of all headaches. They called my order a second time, and I stared at him. Who would blink first? I had the feeling that Rafe could outwait a jungle cat.

"We're still moving along and looking at all the evidence," he said finally. "I hope you're planning on filling me in if there are any new developments."

"Of course I will." Any new developments? Did he expect me to get hit over the head again? Or did he expect me to magically solve the crime? He'd told me over and over to stay out of police business. Plus, he equated forensic psychology with mumbo jumbo. Hardly likely he'd want me as a consultant on the case.

"You andyour roommate. We'll be talking to her again soon. You be sure to tell her that, okay?" He gave me a long look, his dark eyes cool and shuttered. We both stood up then, and the veiled threat in his husky voice was unmistakable, running like a dark undercurrent just beneath the smooth surface.

I knew it. He had set his sights on Lark, like a hungry tiger stalking a gazelle at a watering hole. I gave a tight nod and walked to the counter, his words sending p.r.i.c.kles up my spine. I could feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head, and I willed myself not to turn around. As far as Rafe Martino was concerned, the Cypress Grove PD already had their man.

Or in this case, woman.

Pugsley raced to the door to meet me when I arrived home ten minutes later. He was so excited to see the aromatic bag from Johnny Chen's that he jumped straight up in the air, all four feet off the ground, just like a Hollywood stunt dog.

"Very impressive, Pugsley," I told him, "but you have to wait your turn. There's a steamed pot sticker for you, if you behave yourself." He gave an aggrieved yip but followed me into the dining area, his chunky body quivering with excitement. Pugsley is a foodie with eclectic tastes, but anything from Johnny Chen's sends him into canine nirvana.

I glanced at Mom, who looked flushed with excitement and was humming a little tune under her breath. She had a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look on her face, and I knew something was up. But what? The three of us were crowded around the IKEA table, and Pugsley was sitting at Mom's feet, glancing up at her adoringly. Mom waited until Lark had dished out the lo mein and egg rolls before she dropped the bombsh.e.l.l.

"You'll never guess what I did today!" she said, clasping her hands together dramatically. She was wearing enough thin gold bracelets to outfit a gypsy, and they clanked together when she raised her arms. Lark sent me a sympathetic look. It was obvious that Mom was up to something, and Lark knew where the conversation was headed.

"Okay, I'll bite. You called Donald Trump and asked him out to lunch?" I said innocently.

"Oh, don't be silly. He's got that sweet young wife, Melania. He wouldn't be interested in an old broad like me." She paused, thinking. "Well, he might be tempted, maybe, but not seriously interested. There's a difference, you know. At this stage of my life, I need a man who's ready to make a commitment." She gave Pugsley a tiny corner of her egg roll. "Use your imagination, dear. I'll give you a hint. It fulfills my craving for something exciting and adventurous." Exciting and adventurous? She gave Lark a saucy wink.

I was stumped. "Stephen Spielberg called and he's offering you the lead in his next movie? Woody Allen invited you to Michael's for an evening of jazz? You're replacing Mary Hart on ET?"

"No, no, and no." Mom flashed me a sly smile. "You're on the wrong track. Think hidden talent. Think of something I've never done before."

"I give up," I said, helping myself to a hefty serving of brown rice. My mother has always had a rich fantasy life along with an obsessive interest in show business. I had no clue what she had gotten herself into this time, but I had the p.r.i.c.kly feeling that whatever it was, it didn't bode well.

Mom leaned across the table and lowered her voice as if she was about to impart a military secret. "I did some sleuthing today."

"Sleuthing?"

She nodded in my roommate's direction. "We all have to step up to the plate to help Lark, honey. I know you've been doing your best, but let's face it, Maggie, this investigation is going nowhere. Lark is still the key suspect in Guru Sanjay's death, so I figured it was time for me to get into the act. I did some snooping around." She paused. "And I seem to have a real talent for it," she said with a note of surprise. "I'm a natural."