"What I've just told you must never go outside this room," Mrs. Harvey said. "Debbie is very private. My family is very private."

"I understand."

"Her relationship with Fred," she continued. "It was private. Too private. As I'm sure you've noted, there are no photographs, no visible symbols of it. I have no doubt they have exchanged pictures, gifts, mementos. But she has always been secretive about them. Her birthday was last February-for example. I noticed shortly after that she was wearing a gold ring on the pinky of her right hand. A narrow band with a floral design. She never said a word, nor did I ask. But I'm sure it was from him."

"Do you consider him a stable young man?"

Turning around, she faced me, eyes dark and distracted. "Fred is very intense, somewhat obsessive. But I can't say that he's unstable. I really can't complain about him. I simply have worried that the relationship is too serious, too…"

She looked away, groping for the right word. "Addictive. That's what comes to mind. It's as if they are each other's drug."

Shutting her eyes, she turned away again and leaned her head against the window. "Oh, God. I wish we'd never bought her that goddam Jeep."

I did not comment.

"Fred doesn't have a car. She would have had no choice…"

Her voice trailed off.

"She would have had no choice," I said, "but to drive with you to the beach."

"And this wouldn't have happened!"

Suddenly she walked out the door to the hallway. She could not bear to be inside her daughters' bedroom one moment longer, I knew, and I followed her down the stairs and to the front door. When I reached for her hand, she turned away from me as her tears fell.

"I'm so sorry."

How many times on this earth would I say that? The front door shut quietly as I went down the steps. While driving home I prayed that if I ever encountered Pat Harvey again, it would not be in my official capacity of chief medical examiner.

A week passed before I heard again from anyone connected to the Harvey-Cheney case, the investigation of which had gone nowhere, as far as I knew. Monday, when I was up to my elbows in blood in the morgue, Benton Wesley called. He wanted to talk to Marino and me without delay, and suggested we come for dinner.

"I think Pat Harvey's making him nervous," Marino said that evening. Tentative drops of rain bounced off his car windshield as we headed to Wesley's house. "I personally don't give a rat's ass if she talks to a palm reader, rings up Billy Graham or the friggin' Easter Bunny."

"Hilda Ozimek is not a palm reader," I replied.

"Half those Sister Rose joints with a hand painted on the sign are just fronts for prostitution."

"I'm aware of that," I said wearily.

He opened the ashtray, reminding me what a filthy habit smoking was. If he could cram one more butt in there, it would be a Guinness record.

"I take it you've heard of Hilda Ozimek, then," he went on.

"I really don't know much about her, except that I think she lives somewhere in the Carolinas."

"South Carolina."

"Is she staying with the Harvey's?"

"Not anymore," Marino said, turning off the windshield wipers as the sun peeked out from behind clouds. "Wish the damn weather would make up its mind. She went back to South Carolina yesterday. Was flown in and out of Richmond in a private plane, if you can believe that."

"You mind telling me how anybody knows about it?"

If I was surprised that Pat Harvey would resort to a psychic, I was even more surprised that she would tell anyone.

"Good question. I'm just telling you what Benton said when he called. Apparently, Broom Hilda found something in her crystal ball that got Mrs. Harvey mighty upset."

"What, exactly?"

"Beats the shit outta me. Benton didn't go into detail."

I did not inquire further, for discussing Benton Wesley and his tight-lipped ways made me ill at ease. Once he and I had enjoyed working together, our regard for each other respectful and warm. Now I found him distant and I could not help but worry that the way Wesley acted toward me had to do with Mark. When Mark had walked away from me by taking an assignment in Colorado, he had also walked away from Quantico, where he had enjoyed the privileged role of running the FBI National Academy's Legal Training Unit. Wesley had lost his colleague and companion, and in his mind it was probably my fault. The bond between male friends can be stronger than marriage, and brothers of the bad more loyal to each other than lovers.

A half hour later Marino turned off the highway, and soon after I lost track of the lefts and rights he took on rural routes that led us deeper into the country. Though I had met with Wesley many times in the past, it had always been at my office or his. I had never been invited to his house, located in the picturesque setting of Virginia farmland and forests, pastures surrounded by white fences, and barns and homes set back far from the roads.

When we turned into his subdivision, we began to pass long driveways leading to large modern houses on generous lots, with European sedans parked before two and three-car garages.

"I didn't realize there were Washington bedroom communities this close to Richmond," I commented.

"What? You've lived around here for four, five years and never heard of northern aggression?"

"If you were born in Miami, the Civil War isn't exactly foremost on your mind," I replied.

"I guess not. Hell, Miami ain't even in this country.

Any place where they got to vote on whether English is the official language don't belong in the United States."

Marino's digs about my birthplace were nothing new.

Slowing down as he turned into a gravel drive, he said, "Not a bad crib, huh? Guess the feds pay a little better than the city."

The house was shingle style with a fieldstone foundation and projecting bay windows. Rosebushes lined the front, east, and west wings shaded by old magnolias and oaks. As we got out, I began to look for clues that might give me more insight into Benton Wesley's private life. A basketball hoop was above the garage door, and near a woodpile covered with plastic was a red rider mower sprayed with cut grass. Beyond, I could see a spacious backyard impeccably landscaped with flower beds, azaleas, and fruit trees. Several chairs were arranged close together near a gas grill, and I envisioned Wesley and his wife having drinks and cooking steaks on leisurely summer nights.

Marino rang the bell. It was Wesley's wife who opened the door. She introduced herself as Connie.

"Ben went upstairs for a minute," she said, smiling, as she led us into a living room with wide windows, a large fireplace, and rustic furniture. I had never heard Wesley referred to as "Ben" before. Nor had I ever met his wife. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, an attractive brunette with hazel eyes so light they were almost yellow, and sharp features very much like her husband's. There was a gentleness about her, a quiet reserve suggesting strength of character and tenderness. The guarded Benton Wesley I knew, no doubt, was a very different man at home, and I wondered how familiar Connie was with the details of his profession.

"Will you have a beer, Pete?" she asked.

He settled into a rocking chair. "Looks like I'm the designated driver. Better stick to coffee."

"Kay, what may I get for you?"

"Coffee would be fine," I replied. "If it's no trouble."

"I'm so glad to finally meet you," she added sincerely. "Ben's spoken of you for years. He regards you very highly."

"Thank you."

The compliment disconcerted me, and what she said next came as a shock.

"When we saw Mark last, I made him promise to bring you to dinner next time he comes to Quantico."