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“Do you remember leaving the apartment?”

“That’s the worst part. When she started laughing at me I lost it. I just lost it. I don’t
know
what happened afterward. I woke up in my car a long time later, feeling like shit on toast. I drove home and threw up.” The tears began to flow in a torrent and it was all Claudia could do to make out the words. “Then it was all over the news that she was dead and I... I... I...”

Kelly’s blackout had been smack in the middle of the coroner’s estimate of when Lindsey had died. Claudia’s heart sank a few degrees lower.

“They said she drowned. I think I might have pushed her into the Jacuzzi and held her head under the water, Claud. I was angry enough to do it,
and
buzzed enough. I just don’t remember!”

Claudia’s hand went to her neck and she began massaging the knots of tension that had formed. “Let’s think this through. You said you thought she was expecting someone, right?”

“Yeah, she was all made up, lipstick, everything.”

“Well, in the event she
didn’t
kill herself, what makes you so sure that this other person didn’t show up and kill her after you left?”

“Jeez, I hadn’t thought of that.” Kelly’s voice brightened as she latched onto this explanation like a life preserver. “That
must
be what happened. She didn’t act like someone who was about to kill herself.”

“Don’t repeat that,” Claudia cautioned. “It could easily work against you.” If the police got wind of Kelly’s story, they would be on her like a pack of starving mongrels. Yet, what if a killer was on the loose? “The cops need to know someone else might have been there, Kel. You’ll have to tell them.”

Kelly’s voice grew shrill with panic. “Forget it! Not after Lindsey called 911. They can’t know I went back.”

“There wasn’t a restraining order against you and the coroner ruled her death a suicide. Unless there’s evidence that someone else was there, that’s how it will stand.”

If another visitor had arrived after Kelly, that person’s name might be in the log, although the concierge had let Kelly pass without signing in. Claudia made herself a note to suggest Ivan Novak have the log checked.

“Claudia, did you hear me?” Kelly was asking in a plaintive voice. “What if I
did
kill her?”

“I’m going to have to examine the suicide note tomorrow. If Lindsey wrote it, you won’t have to say anything. But if it’s not her handwriting, you’ll
have
to tell the police that you saw her again and that she was alive at ten o’clock.”

“I’m not talking to the cops, Claudia.” All of a sudden Kelly sounded stone cold sober. “And neither are you.”

By the time she’d cleaned up the kitchen and dumped the bag of trash into the plastic bin in the alley behind her house, Claudia had resolved to get to the bottom of Lindsey’s death.

It was not her job to reopen the investigation. Her obligation ended with authenticating the suicide note. But after Kelly’s little bombshell, she knew she would have to do everything within her ability to uncover the truth.

What if she uncovered evidence that incriminated Kelly? Could she remain objective? Maybe she should resign from the case before it was too late. Torn by second thoughts, Claudia went upstairs to the office and got out the suicide note.

IT WAS FUN WHILE IT LASTED.

Block printing. She reflected on some of the general interpretations that she could make about printed handwriting and personality. People who block print only occasionally are usually making a point, being emphatic.
Habitual
printers generally tended to have intimacy issues. By breaking the links between their letters, they were symbolically breaking their connections to other people. Also, those who chose the
block
style of printing were often egocentric, seeing themselves as the center of the universe.

Those characteristics fit Lindsey.

From what Claudia knew of Lindsey’s handwriting from years ago, the style of writing had been distinctly different from the printed words on the paper—cursive, with large lower loops. Yet, she knew that when life takes traumatic twists and turns, handwriting changes.

IT WAS FUN WHILE IT LASTED.

She could see Lindsey uttering those pragmatic words before downing the lethal cocktail and stepping into her hot tub. But again Claudia asked herself, why would Lindsey choose to end her life at this particular point in time?

Or did Kelly’s story hold the answer after all?

Questions plagued her long into the evening, until doubt became a living thing, choking her with uncertainty. Was it possible that her closest friend might be responsible for a monstrous crime like murder?
Ridiculous.
Yet, the window of opportunity yawned just wide enough to make the ridiculous possible.

Only nine-thirty, but Claudia’s eyes burned with fatigue. She undressed and threw on her favorite ratty T-shirt and stretch pants, fed an Eric Clapton CD to the stereo and went into the kitchen, where she poured a vodka and cranberry. Grabbing the heavy afghan that was draped across the back of the couch, she went out to the deck, dodging the large potted asparagus fern that she had purchased a week earlier. She had yet to find the right home for it on the deck, and needed to move it before she tripped over the long fronds and broke her neck.
Tomorrow.

Clapton’s voice followed her outside as she hummed along to
Laila
, wrapping herself in the afghan and settling into the cozy basket chair suspended from the rafters.

She was excessively proud of that chair. Drilling the hole for the big hook and hanging it without any help had been a small symbol of her independence after Alan had moved out, destroying the imperfect life they had built together. Overcome by hurt and remorse, she had been unable to work for weeks afterward. Ironic, since it was her work that had driven them apart.

Claudia cuddled the afghan around her, a poor substitute for a lover’s arms. This was her favorite part of the day: a moment to savor, when she could relax, unwind, and recharge her batteries. No questions to answer, no clients’ demands or friends’ problems to deal with.

Yawning, she set her half-empty glass on the redwood deck, certain of only one thing—if there had been foul play, the killer must be brought to justice,
whoever
he or she might be. No matter how hateful Lindsey’s behavior had been; however many nasty tricks she had played, she had been molded by horrible childhood abuse. She didn’t deserve to die.

Startled from a disturbing dream, Claudia was out of the chair and halfway into the house before she became aware that it was a ringing telephone that had awakened her.

Her heart was galloping like a racehorse in the homestretch, as Claudia stumbled into the kitchen and squinted at the phone’s caller ID:
Private Caller.
The LED clock on the microwave told her she’d been asleep for about twenty minutes.

Waiting for her respiration to slow, she listened to her own recorded voice on the answering machine:
“... and please leave your name and number after the beep.”

“Claudia, if you’re there, pick up. Claudia?” She recognized the voice and its insistent tone even before the caller said, “It’s Ivan Novak, please pick up the phone. It’s urgent.”

She grabbed the handset, too jarred by the sudden wake-up not to let her irritation show. “
Yes,
Ivan?”

“I’ve found something I need you to take a look at.”

Still fuzzy from her dream state, Claudia turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face. “What? I was asleep.”

“Asleep?” Ivan repeated. “Good God, Claudia, it’s not even ten o’clock.”

“I apologize for being tired after running around all day, working on your case.”

Her sarcasm was lost on Ivan. “I’ve got to see you, this is important.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. I’m about to leave for Chicago on the red eye, so you need to come right away.”

“You want me to come back to Lindsey’s place tonight?” She felt foolish, echoing him, but this call was far from the standard client request.

“I’ve found a letter from Doctor Gold written to Lindsey that you need to see,” Ivan said.

“From Zebediah? About what? You can fax it to me.”

“No, that’s not all. I need you to hold some other things for me until I get back from Chicago and figure out what to do with them. Tapes and, well, this material is just too sensitive to leave lying around here.”

“What material? What tapes? Ivan, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone. It’s not secure.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Someone could be listening in.”

His words sent a little chill up her spine. “Ivan, are these tapes evidence in Lindsey’s death? If so, you should take them to the police.”

“No! Look, I’ve found something that could put a new light on Lindsey’s death. Claudia, I know Doctor Gold is a close friend of yours. When you see this letter I think you’ll agree it’s in his best interests for you to...”

His words slammed her in the face and brought her fully awake. “You can’t possibly think Zebediah...”

“Come now,
please.
We’ll talk when you get here.”

Claudia didn’t immediately answer. Even though he occasionally confided in her, she was well aware that Zebediah Gold was a man with secrets of his own. But what Ivan was implying... “Believe me,” Ivan continued, “I’d rather put all this crap into a safety deposit box, but I have to be at LAX by eleven. You can drop me at the airport on your way home. It will give us a chance to discuss everything.”

Claudia tensed with frustration. “
Ivan...
”

“I’ll wait for you in front of the building. You can drive by and I’ll just jump into your car. It’s a white Jag, right?”

Zebediah had always been there for Claudia when she needed to talk about a difficult case, or make her laugh with a bawdy joke when she needed a break; someone to discuss things that she didn’t want to share with Kelly. She owed it to him to see what it was that Ivan had.

Or thought he had.

And what about the tapes he had mentioned?

Tapes of what?

Claudia pushed the Jag as much as she dared through surface streets, speculating on what the letter might contain. There was no denying Zebediah was a man of powerful appetites, impulsive when he wanted something. Her mind raced through the possibilities. What were the chances he had violated the ethics of his profession and the law and had an affair with Lindsey while she was his patient? Zebediah had long ago confided in Claudia that Lindsey had tried to seduce him. He said he had immediately referred her to another therapist, but she’d never kept the appointment.

Had he been telling the truth when he said he’d rejected her advances? What if Lindsey had threatened to expose him; blackmailed him as she may have blackmailed Preston Sommerfield?

She remembered Ivan’s words:
“This could put a new light on Lindsey’s death.”

The morning’s tête-à-tête with Earl Nelson came back like a news flash. Was his claim that Ivan was Lindsey’s only heir a reason for Ivan to throw suspicion onto someone else? If Nelson was correct, Ivan was the one who stood to gain from Lindsey’s death. If Ivan had something to hide, maybe accusing Zebediah could be to his advantage.

But if Ivan himself were in some way involved in Lindsey’s death, why would he need to divert suspicion when it had already been ruled a suicide?

The insurance money.

He’d said the insurance companies wouldn’t pay out for a suicide.

Maybe he needs a patsy.

His reluctance to help her come up with the materials she had requested for the handwriting comparison continued to perplex her.

“Please don’t let Zebediah be involved,” she prayed aloud, although she had long ago left religion behind and couldn’t say for sure to whom she was praying.

Arriving at the Wilshire Boulevard high-rise, Claudia found the sidewalk deserted. She parked the Jag behind a florist’s van with a bouquet of red roses stenciled on the side, and cut the engine, irked that Ivan was not where he had promised to be. At this time of night, LAX would be a thirty-minute drive and she would need to break speed limits to get him through security on time to make his flight.

She dialed Lindsey’s number and got a busy signal. Ivan’s mobile number went right to voice mail.

Goddammit
.

Claudia flipped the phone shut and leaned over the seat back, straining to see through the glass doors fronting the lobby. She got out, slammed the car door, and ran up the half-dozen steps, doing a slow burn. Jesus, this case was bringing out the worst in her. Was it only that morning she had been here, poking through Lindsey’s files? It felt like a month ago.

No valet or doorman was in evidence, but she could see a security guard behind the reception desk where the concierge normally stood. Fat and fiftyish, he had a Big Mac in one hand and was fully occupied with stuffing a fistful of fries into his mouth with the other. The front doors were locked and she held up her ID, prepared to make a fuss if he gave her a hard time. But the guard just waved his sandwich at her and buzzed her in. When she hurried over to the desk, he gave her a friendly greeting and didn’t bother checking her ID or make her sign in.

“They just had a flower delivery up there,” he said when she told him her destination.

The delivery might explain Ivan’s delay, but it didn’t explain why the telephone was busy when he was supposed to be meeting her outside.

The luminous green eyes that stared back at her from the mirrored elevator walls were strained and fatigued. For a brief moment, Claudia nurtured the bizarre notion of getting a tattoo on her forehead to remind her every time she saw her reflection:
Personal acquaintances make the worst clients.