1

God he hated daylight! Today even late afternoon dragged on him with as much force as high noon. Garreth splashed water on his face and pushed himself upright.

The mirrors above the washbasins in the men's room at Bryant Street reflected a face thinner and paler than ever, with eyes smudged by weariness. The eyes he saw, though, were violet, dancing amid the flames of a blazing bridge. Since they had come back from the hotel, his former colleagues in Homicide had been watching him sideways with narrowed eyes, and when they spoke to him it was in the flat voice usually reserved for outsiders. Lane's laughter whispered in his ears.

Fowler came out of a stall behind him. "What bloody fools those coppers are!"

Garreth snatched for his glasses. He had almost forgotten about the writer following him to the men's room. "They're just doing their jobs. As luck would have it, I've been in the wrong places at the wrong time."

"I wonder if luck has had much to do with it." Fowler turned on the water in one basin. The heat of it carried his blood scent toward Garreth. Garreth's stomach cramped with hunger. "Have you considered that for purposes of hanging a frame on you, you've been in exactly the right places at the right times?"

Hunger vanished in dismay. "Frame!"

Fowler rinsed his hands and reached for a paper towel. "Of course. I've been thinking about this a good deal and a frame makes sense of everything. I admit I'm no policeman, only a writer, but that's to my favor. I can recognize a plot when I see one. Don't you see? The torture wasn't to gain information at all, only to make it look like someone wanted information . . . a role your Miss Barber has carefully tailored to you."

"Why? It doesn't gain her anything:" Even If Lane were alive.

Fowler smiled thinly. "Except revenge, old son. You've seriously inconvenienced her, after all, haven't you . . . making her give up her job and go into hiding, forcing her to move twice, turning friends against her. So now she's returning the favor. It's much nastier than killing you outright. This way she destroys you. Even if you aren't prosecuted or convicted, you'll become a pariah."

But Lane was dead. The same motive fit Irina, though. Since leaving that note at the apartment, she might have found out he killed Lane. He sucked in his breath. "Maybe you're right."

"In which case you'd best find her quickly, before she kills again."

Before another innocent person died. Garreth's mouth thinned. Find her how? The hexagram Lien had thrown for him that morning—only that morning?—ran through his head: if the little fox wets his tail crossing the river, nothing furthers. Thought and caution are necessary for success.

He sighed. "I think I'd be playing into her hands going after her on my own. It's better to lay your theory on Harry and let him check it while I keep low and out of trouble."

"Hang about now!" Fowler snapped. "You're already in trouble, up to your bloody eyebrows. And you'll get no help from that lot in the squadroom, either. They're already half convinced by the frame."

"But you're not?" Garreth said sardonically.

Fowler lounged against a washbasin. "No, and I want to help you prove your innocence."

"So you can have a happy ending for the book?"

Fowler jerked upright. "To hell with the bloody book!"

A uniformed officer coming in the door stopped short and stared at them.

Taking a deep breath, Fowler lowered his voice to a whisper. "You are a bloody fool! There's a woman out there trying to put you in the dock and she's got to be stopped! That's all that matters at the moment. Look here; I can help you. I'm a famous writer. People will talk to me who'd never open their mouths to a copper. And as long as I'm with you, you've got an alibi, haven't you, whatever Barber tries."

Garreth reached up under his glasses to rub his eyes. They burned. But then, everything else in him ached, too. He sighed. "I'll think about it."

"You do that, old son." Fowler headed for the door. "But don't take long or it may be too late."