"Or it could mean I don't like c.o.c.kroaches in my desk drawers."

"You didn't find c.o.c.kroaches in your desk. The canteen is on the other side of this floor and if we were going to have roaches on the third floor, that's where they'd be. But they aren't there, possibly because this floor was fumigated less than two weeks ago. I know because I'm allergic to the chemical."

"Keep going."

"You can't stand clutter, and you have an obsession with orderliness. The furniture in here is centered exactly on the walls; the files on your desk are arranged in precise corners. If I had to guess, I would say you are probably a control freak, and that is usually symptomatic of a man who feels powerless to control his own life, so he tries to control every facet of his surroundings. Shall I stop?"

"No, please go on."

"You're wearing brown loafers, brown pants, and a brown belt. Your face is tanned, which makes you look healthy, but you've lost a lot of weight recently-possibly due to an illness that required you to take enough time off in the winter to get that tan."

"What makes you think I've lost weight?"

"Because the jacket you're wearing is too big for you, especially in the shoulders."

"Which could mean that I stayed at my sister's house last night and borrowed this jacket from my brother-in-law when I realized I had to come in here today."

"You wouldn't use someone else's clothes; you don't even like using someone else's office." She paused and asked with convincing meekness, "How am I doing so far?"

He looked down at his tablet, and the crease of his scar deepened enough to give Sam the impression he might actually be smiling. "Not bad. Go on."

"Instead of facing people at your desk, you sit sideways in your chair. That could mean you're self-conscious about your scars, which I doubt. It could mean you have a hearing problem that is helped when you turn your good ear to whoever is speaking, which I also doubt. It's possible you sit that way because you have some sort of back problem, or because it enables you to concentrate better. People with ADD sometimes do that."

"And do you have an opinion as to which of those theories about the way I sit might be correct?"

"Not one worth giving," Sam said stubbornly, but with an innocent troubled expression.

"Give it anyway."

Graciously, she inclined her head, yielding to his rank and his right to command. "I think you sit that way so you can hold your tablet out of sight where no one can see what you're writing. I also think it may have been a necessity for some reason in the past, but that now you do it more out of habit."

"What color are my socks?"

"Brown."

"What color are my eyes? "

"I have no idea," Sam lied. "I'm sorry." He had steel blue eyes, but she had already won his tournament, game, set, and match. She was not going to let him score a point for his ego in overtime !

However, her confidence began to fade a little as she waited for him to write something on his d.a.m.ned yellow pad-an evaluation of her observations, an appraisal of her, a grade. She knew instinctively he intended to do exactly that; she knew it as surely as she knew that after he wrote down his evaluation and his decision about keeping her on the team, he would tear the yellow sheet off his pad and put it into the folder near his elbow that had her name on it. What she couldn't figure out was why he was still sitting there, pencil in hand, taking so long to make up his mind.

She stared at his inscrutable profile, willing him to write something down.

She was watching him so closely that she actually saw the muscle at the corner of his mouth move before the movement became a hint of an actual smile, and he finally began to jot notes on his tablet.

She had qualified to stay on the team! She knew that much from his expression. Now she wished more than anything that she knew what he was writing.

"Curious?" he asked without looking up.

"Of course."

"Do you think you have a chance of seeing what I'm writing about you here?"

"About the same chance I have of winning the lottery."

His smile deepened. "You're right." He flipped the page over and wrote several other notes on the next sheet. Suddenly he tore both sheets off and swiveled his chair to the front. He put the first sheet into the folder with Sam's name on it; he slid the second sheet into his top desk drawer.

"All right, let's get started," he said abruptly. "There are four stacks of folders on my desk. The stack with the blue labels on the folders contains all the information we have right now on Logan Manning. The second stack with the green labels covers everything on Leigh Manning. The stack with the yellow labels pertains to their known friends and a.s.sociates. The stack with the red labels is the tip of the iceberg on Valente. I'm having all his files copied and sent over here, but it will take a few days. By next week, that table over there will be covered with files on him.

"Each of us will take a stack, and we will read every sheet of paper in every single folder. The doc.u.ments in the folders are all photocopies, so you can take them home with you. When you've finished going through all the files in your stack, start on a new one. By the end of next week, I want all of us to be completely familiar with every doc.u.ment in every folder in these stacks. Oh, and one more thing-these stacks are partials; we're still searching the archives on everyone except Valente. We already know all there is to know about him. Any questions?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

"I have a question," Sam said as she stood up and reached for the armload of files on Logan Manning. "There were two words scribbled on the bottom of Valente's note, written in what I a.s.sume is Italian. They don't make sense to Shrader or me. We wanted to check them out. Could I get a copy of the note?"

"No. n.o.body gets a peek at that note or a hint of what it says until we're ready to show it. The last time the Feds went after Valente, there were so many leaks that his lawyers were filing motions to suppress while the Feds were still trying to figure out what evidence they had and what it could mean. Never underestimate Valente," McCord warned, "and don't underestimate his influence and connections. His connections go all the way to the top. And that," he said meaningfully, "is why we are keeping this case right down here, in the Eighteenth Precinct-right at the bottom of the ladder of justice. Valente won't be looking for it here, and we're hoping he won't be able to get at it so easily."

When he finished, he looked from Shrader to Sam. "What's bothering you?"

"Instead of making a copy of the note, could I write the two words down?"

Leaning across his desk, he jotted the two words on his yellow tablet, tore off the sheet, and handed it to her. "We've already run them through the system.

'Falco' turned up as an alias he's used before. It's a common Italian surname.

We're still checking the other one out for a.s.sociations." He looked at Shrader.

"Any comments or questions, Malcolm?"

"One," Shrader said, looking absolutely ferocious. "I would appreciate it if you would never call me that again, Lieutenant."

"I won't."

"I hate that name."

"My mother liked it. It was her maiden name."

"I hate it anyway," Shrader announced, picking up his stack of files.

As soon as they were out the door and out of hearing, Shrader looked at her and shook his big head. "You lead a charmed life, Littleton. So help me G.o.d, when you told him he was a neurotic control freak with a neatness compulsion, I broke out in a sweat."

Sam thought it was touching that Shrader had worried that much about her.

Her next thought was that she should have thanked McCord for letting her stay on the team. Viewed from any direction, this was a chance of a lifetime and she was a neophyte who really shouldn't be getting such a chance. On the other hand, she reminded herself, if she hadn't found Valente's note, there wouldn't be a "team." She dumped the files on her desk, asked Shrader to keep an eye on them for a moment, and walked back to the lieutenant's office.

McCord was leaning back in his chair, reading a file with a red label, a tablet at his elbow, pencil in hand, ready to make notes. He even looked tough and fascinating when he read. She knocked politely on the doorframe, and when he glanced up, she said, "I just wanted to thank you for having enough faith in me to let me work this case."

He regarded her steadily, his expression amused. "Don't thank me, thank the c.o.c.kroaches."

Sam hesitated, holding his gaze, trying not to laugh. "Is there any particular c.o.c.kroach I should thank?"

McCord returned his attention to the file folder and turned a page. "The one I found in my desk drawer that's big enough to drive a Volvo. His cousins live in the canteen."

CHAPTER 22.

"I can't believe you've kept your friends away for so long!" Jason chided Leigh as soon as Hilda let him in Sunday afternoon. The energy and animation he exuded made Leigh feel both enlivened and exhausted, but she could barely hide her displeasure when he turned aside to hand Hilda his coat and she realized he wasn't alone. Behind him stood Jane Sebring.

Ruddy-faced from the cold and boyishly eager to see her, Jason left Jane in the foyer and rushed across the room to plant a kiss on Leigh's cheek. "I couldn't stop Jane from coming," he whispered. "She insisted. She got right into the taxi with me. She won't stay long, though. She has to be back at the theater for the matinee, but I'm free all afternoon!" Straightening, he stood up and surveyed Leigh's face, his own face registering unconcealed horror. "How long will it be before you look like yourself?"

"Not long," Leigh said, wincing as he settled himself close beside her on the sofa, but her attention was on Jane, who had stopped at a mirror to inspect her flawless face.

In the tradition of the Barrymores, four successive generations of the Sebring family had become theater legends. Jane was the first member of her ill.u.s.trious family ever to be regarded as extraordinarily beautiful; she was also the first member of her family to be savaged by theater critics in her first Broadway role.

In reality, she'd simply debuted in a major role that was far too challenging for an inexperienced actress of twenty-one, but she'd been given that opportunity because she was a Sebring. And because she was a Sebring, the critics had held her to the impossibly high standards set by her more experienced, and far less gorgeous, famous ancestors.

Two weeks after the play opened, she left it in disgrace and went to Hollywood. There, her family's contacts opened doors for her, and her stunning face and figure mesmerized the cameras. With good direction and good editing, her performances improved along with her roles, culminating in an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress last year.

Her Oscar gave Jane a stature in films that her forebears had never achieved in their motion picture careers, but that wasn't enough. Apparently still wounded by her long-ago humiliation on Broadway, she'd pa.s.sed up two stellar film opportunities and a fortune in money in order to take a role in Blind Spot.

"You poor thing!" Jane said as she put her cheek near Leigh's and blew a kiss in the air; then she straightened and did her own inventory of the fading bruises and healing cuts on Leigh's face. "You've been through so much since opening night-"

Hoping to avoid probing questions about the details of what she'd been through, Leigh resorted to formalities by asking them if Hilda could bring them something to drink.

"I'll have my usual," Jason said, looking over his shoulder at Hilda, who he knew from experience would be hovering nearby, ready to bring refreshments.

"A vodka martini," he clarified, "with two olives."

"Jane?" Leigh asked.

"I don't drink," Jane reminded her, her expression gently chiding Leigh for failing to remember that Jane did not drink alcohol. Although past generations of the Sebring family had all been as notorious for their vices as for their talent, Jane Sebring had none of their predilection for excesses. She did not drink or smoke, she abhorred drugs, and she was a physical-fitness fanatic. "I'll have some bottled water, if you have it."

"We do," Leigh said.

"I prefer Weltzenholder," Jane added. "It's bottled in the Alps. They only export a thousand cases a year to the U.S. I buy one hundred cases at a time."

"I'm sorry, but the other nine hundred cases went to someone other than us,"

Leigh said lightly. "What else would you like?"

"Pellegrino will be fine."

Leigh nodded and looked at Hilda. "I'd like tea, Hilda. Thank you."

Jason watched Hilda as if to make sure she was out of earshot before he asked a question, but Hilda was completely trustworthy. Jane was the fascinated outsider who would repeat and embellish everything she heard to friends, strangers, and reporters alike. Leigh could have strangled him for bringing her along.

"What news have you heard about Logan?" he asked Leigh as soon as Hilda disappeared beyond a doorway.

"Nothing. You know as much as I do."

He looked genuinely shocked. "Darling, this is unbelievable, impossible!

What could have happened to him?"

He died... I know it... He died... I know it... Leigh tensed her entire body in an effort to block out the terrible chant pounding in her brain. "I don't know."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Leigh shook her head. "The police are doing everything they possibly can.

Commissioner Trumanti has sent helicopters, squad cars, and detectives into the mountains to search for him."

"What about you? How are you feeling? Really?"

"I'm stiff and sore, and I look like h.e.l.l, but that's all that's wrong. Other than the fact that my husband is d-missing," she corrected, struggling to recover from another tidal wave of despondency and grief.

Jason fell silent, looking helpless and forlorn and completely empathetic, but only for a moment. His expression cleared almost immediately and he broached a topic that affected his own personal well-being and therefore was of maximum importance to him. "Do you think it would help you to come back to work soon?"

"Physically, I could probably manage it next week-"

"Fantastic! That's my girl! You're a trooper. I knew I could count on you to-!

"But not mentally," Leigh interrupted emphatically. "I can't think of anything except Logan. I wouldn't even be able to remember my lines."

"They would come back to you the minute you stepped onstage."

"Maybe they would," Leigh said, letting her gaze shift to Jane, "but I don't have one bit of emotion left over to invest in them. You understand, don't you, Jane?"

"Perfectly," Jane said. "I even tried to explain to Jason how you'd be feeling right now, but you know how all-important the play is to him." To Leigh's surprise, the actress actually seemed disgusted as she added bluntly, "Jason wouldn't care if you were on life support, so long as they could unplug you and prop you up long enough to say your lines."

"That's not completely true," Jason said, looking stung. "I'd restage your scenes so you could say your lines lying down." He paused long enough to take his martini gla.s.s from the tray Hilda was holding out to him. "I'm a selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he declared with an impenitent grin. "But you have to admit," he added with a wink at Leigh, "I'm a brilliant selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Leigh a.s.sumed he was making a lame attempt to amuse and distract her, and she managed to give him a wan smile.

With no verbal reply from Leigh to encourage further banter, Jason stopped talking about himself and regaled her with a discussion of his play's fabulous reviews, box office sales, and lighting problems, and followed that with an irate description of his latest quarrel with the play's director. Leigh let him talk, but his words never actually registered on her. Reclining against the arm of the sofa, she watched his mouth move, and she looked automatically toward Jane when the other woman spoke, but she had little idea of what they were saying and even less interest in it.

When Jane finally stood up to leave, Leigh realized that she was going to have to deal with Jason alone, and she almost regretted the actress's impending departure.

"Robert and Lincoln asked me to give you their love," Jane told her.

Leigh hadn't given a single thought to any of the actors in Blind Spot until that moment. "Please give them mine. Did Robert's wife have their baby yet? "