THE HOMICIDES WERE related all right. Morgan collapsed into his chair and looked with bleary eyes at the reports that were already flooding his desk. Mentally he tallied the similarities. Both men had been at a motel in the early afternoon, signed in under false names, and according to the respective desk clerks, both men had been there before. The description of the woman they’d come to meet was also identical: trench coat, hat, sunglasses…

To clinch matters, both men had been shot by a Smith & Wesson .38, and Morgan had no doubt that ballistics testing would confirm that the same revolver was used in each crime. In fact, the only difference seemed to be the number of shots taken to kill the second victim, and the bubbles and steam in the bathroom probably accounted for that discrepancy.

Most damning of all, both men had been clients of Trista’s. And he was just too bloody tired to figure out the implications of that right now.

Instead, Morgan thought about the scenarios surrounding each homicide. Walker had been cooking a spaghetti dinner, had set a romantic table and opened a nice bottle of red wine. Hawthorne had run a bubble bath in a huge tub and had obviously been expecting company to share his bottle of wine. Same vintage, and year, as the one at the Walker homicide scene.

Both situations suggested that there was a romantic as well as a sexual aspect to the relationship with the unknown lover. The question was, had both men been seeing the same woman? It seemed likely, given the wine and the similar descriptions of the woman, yet it was not necessarily so. Morgan was always careful not to jump to conclusions. Maybe, he hoped, something would turn up in their investigation of this latest killing that would help identify the mystery woman.

Which brought his thoughts back to Trista. This added link to her office would put her even higher on the suspect list. Her and that secretary of hers—Brenda Malachowski.

Zarowin’s warning rang in the back of his mind and he wondered how Trista would react if she knew she was a suspect.

She’d ended up sending the cabby away last night, and he hadn’t been able to drop her off at the Holiday Inn until about four in the morning. She was probably exhausted today, but he was willing to bet she’d taken a cab to work and arrived at her usual time, nonetheless.

He thought again about what had happened earlier in her apartment, or what had almost happened. He knew he hadn’t imagined her desire. It had been as strong as his own, or pretty damn close. Yet she’d managed to tame it, deny it, the way you might twist a key in the ignition of a car, killing the engine. Knowing Trista, he wasn’t surprised she had the strength to do this. But it made him hate her, just a little bit more, all the same.

TRISTA OPENED the file on her desk, but all she could think about was Daniel Hawthorne’s murder. How was Sylvia going to react when she heard the news about her husband? Sylvia was domineering and manipulative, but Trista knew that she loved her husband intensely—almost obsessively. Would his death be enough to put her over the edge?

Added to the trauma of losing her husband would be the pain of having confirmed her own suspicion that Daniel had been having an affair. Trista shuddered, thinking about the effect such a double shock could have.

She stared at the page in front of her, seeing nothing but a long body covered with a white sheet. Even sitting in the car, she’d seen enough to give her nightmares for a month. She’d watched them carry out the body, the bag containing all his belongings…images she’d probably carry with her for the rest of her life. She’d listened through the open window to all the speculations and estimates, including the coroner’s best guess at time of death. He’d put it at some time early in the afternoon, which meant that she could have been talking to Sylvia the very second Daniel was being shot!

And to think how casually she’d counseled his wife to wait and talk to him later that night.

Exhausted, Trista laid her head down on her desk. There would be no more talks between Sylvia and her husband now. Just as her eyes began to drift closed, the significance of what she’d just been thinking suddenly struck her, and she sat upright again.

She had to call Morgan to let him know she’d been talking to Sylvia. How ironic if it turned out that she would be the alibi in this case. Trista dialed quickly. A recorded message came on after two rings. Frustrated, she left a message for him to call her back.

She hung up once again, and gave in to despair. What was she going to do? First Jerry Walker. Now Daniel Hawthorne. She’d done her best to pass off the break-in at her office as coincidence, but this was too much. There had to be a connection, and it frustrated and scared her that she had no idea what that connection could be. She remembered Morgan’s questions about Brenda, how funny he’d been about her not checking Brenda’s references properly. Was she the missing link? It seemed too crazy to be true.

But if it wasn’t Brenda, then who was it? And more important, did Daniel’s murder mark the end of it, or were more people on the death list? Trista’s heart hammered in her chest.

Surely not. But so many strange things had been happening. Maybe it would be safer if she closed her office for a while. Until she had some idea what was going on here, and why. Besides, she wasn’t in the proper condition to work these days. It wasn’t just being worried sick about the murders, but having to deal with Morgan, too. The combination was exacting a toll on her own mental health.

She walked out to reception and explained her decision to close the office to Brenda. She asked her to cancel all their appointments for the next few days and take a paid holiday.

“Would you also drop a copy of that list you made for Detective Forester on my desk on your way out?” She wanted to see exactly which people might have had the opportunity to steal the key to their office. Now that her own apartment seemed to be a target, she was ready to take this much more seriously.

Before they finished, Brenda commented, “By the way, those men still haven’t showed up to change our locks. Do you want me to phone security about it?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll look into it,” Trista decided. First thing Wednesday morning she’d asked Joe to have the locks to her office changed. She’d expected the work to be completed by now, but Joe had probably put down the entire episode to squirrels and hadn’t taken her request seriously.

After a pointed telephone discussion with the security man on duty, Trista hung up the phone dissatisfied. Tomorrow was the soonest they could get the locks changed, and as far as she was concerned that just wasn’t good enough. Now she was doubly glad she’d decided to close the office for the next few days.

Ten minutes later, when Brenda brought her the list, Trista was surprised to see that Sylvia Hawthorne was included. She placed the tip of her index finger next to the name.

“Are you sure about Sylvia? I saw her Wednesday, not Tuesday.”

“She was here Tuesday, too,” Brenda insisted. “She didn’t have an appointment, she just barged in. I would have been out at lunch, but I had some phone calls to make.”

“What did she want?”

“She said to talk to you, although she wasn’t willing to wait half an hour until you were finished with your client.”

Trista folded the list and placed it in her purse. Funny that Sylvia hadn’t mentioned anything about the earlier visit when she’d been in on Wednesday. Another thing Trista would have to remember to tell Morgan.

THE HAWTHORNES’ HOME was located in the prestigious central Toronto area of Forest Hill. Stately maple and oak trees graced the streets. The homes—mansions, more like—were set back on the lots, giving the impression of country estates.

As Morgan pulled into the Hawthornes’ circular driveway, he thought about the information they’d compiled on them so far. Daniel had been a university professor. Sylvia didn’t work. There was no way they could have afforded this address on salary alone. Sylvia had inherited the house, as well as a substantial amount of money, when her father died about five years ago. Up until that time they’d lived in a modest bungalow in Leaside, another Toronto neighborhood.

Morgan got out of his car and headed up the walkway to the arched oak doors at the front of the house. He had a vague impression of curtains moving from the front window as he walked past. A deep breath steadied him before he rang the bell.

No one liked this part of the job. He could’ve easily assigned someone else to do it for him. But he’d never believed in avoiding the dirty work. And anyway, there was an important reason for him to be here. He wanted to see Daniel’s wife’s reaction when he told her about the murder.

Sylvia Hawthorne answered the door dressed in a fashionable sweat suit in various shades of purple. From the sheen, the fabric looked like silk. She was not overweight, but she was a large woman with a stocky build and no discernible waistline. Her hair was black, and her eyes, which registered a polite curiosity, were also black. Uncannily black.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hawthorne. My name is Morgan Forester. I’m a detective with the metro police department. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“Bad news?” Sylvia Hawthorne stepped aside, her skin suddenly pale in the light of the foyer. “Let’s go to the den, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine.” He rubbed his shoes against the bristles of the front mat and stepped inside. Sylvia led him to a dark room of leather and wood that looked like the setting for Masterpiece Theater.

“I assume this has something to do with my husband? He didn’t come home last night. The first time in twenty-six years of marriage. I called all the hospitals last night, so I know he didn’t have an accident. Have you found him? Is he all right?”

She gestured for Morgan to sit down in the chair next to hers. Her eyes were bright and focused on him intently, but dark circles suggested she’d been up all night. He cleared his throat. There was no easy way to say what he had to say.

“No, he’s not. We found him late last night at the Moondust Motel.”

Sylvia flinched.

“He’d been shot, Mrs. Hawthorne. He didn’t suffer very long. I’m sorry.” Morgan watched Sylvia close her eyes and clench her jaw tightly. He was trained to pick up on the smallest sign that she already knew her husband was dead, however, her reaction was giving nothing away. If indeed she had anything to give away. When she finally opened her eyes, her expression was full of pain and grief, and Morgan felt his own heart constrict with the knowledge that his words had brought another person the sort of agony he knew only too well.

“Some lunatic?” Sylvia spoke in a low voice, controlling her tears.

Morgan shook his head. “We don’t think so. We suspect it was someone he knew.”

Sylvia swallowed. “That’s ridiculous. If you knew my husband you would know that he had no enemies. Unless…”

“Yes?”

Sylvia turned away from him, staring unseeingly out the window to the street beyond. “About six months ago I found out my husband was having an affair. He agreed to stop seeing her, we went to counseling…

“Just this week I suspected he might have started seeing her again. Yesterday he canceled our lunch because of an unscheduled faculty meeting. Yet, when I called the university, I was told there was no meeting.” She looked back at Morgan. “You found him at a motel?”

Once again Morgan nodded.

She closed her eyes briefly, pain convoluting the features of her face. “Do you know who the woman was?”

“No.” Morgan paused before continuing. “Do you?”

Sylvia’s ebony eyes seemed to burn for a second before she lowered them to her clasped hands. “I have no idea.”

“You said you were seeing a marriage counselor…”

Sylvia inclined her head, acknowledging the unspoken insinuation. “That was months ago. I thought things were better.”

“You and Mr. Hawthorne didn’t have children?”

Sylvia’s lips drew down. “No. We couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. So am I. So was Daniel. He had a low sperm count, you see.” A trace of bitterness crept into Sylvia’s voice. “I could have had children with someone else. But I loved Daniel. I stuck by him. And how does he repay me?”

Morgan sat back and waited. Some people wound themselves up. All you had to do was listen.

“I could’ve had affairs, too, Detective. I’ve had my opportunities, believe me. But I didn’t. And do you know why? Because I loved my husband.”

Her voice broke, and she stood. Slowly she walked over to the desk at the corner of the room and rested her hands on it, lowering her head so that he couldn’t see her face. Morgan couldn’t help feeling her grief was genuine, but still there was something about Sylvia that set his instincts on alert.

As he left, Morgan told her to be sure and call if she thought of anything else that might be relevant. In his car, a bag he’d picked up from Walker’s Hardware that morning reminded him of the next job on his list. Now that the interview with Sylvia Hawthorne was out of the way, he might as well get at it. He knew he wouldn’t relax until it was taken care of.

On the way, he checked his messages. As soon as he heard Trista’s voice, he dialed her number. At her office he got a recording: “Trista Emerson’s office will be closed until further notice. If you’d like to leave a message—”

Impatiently, Morgan hung up and tried her home number. When he got her answering machine there he hung up. Where the hell was she? And what was this information she had that she thought was so important?

THE MINUTE TRISTA OPENED her apartment door, she sensed something was wrong. Pausing, her hand still on the door handle, she listened. There it was again, a strange tapping sound. Coming from her bedroom.

Oh, no. Not again. She was just about to make a quiet retreat when she heard her name.

“Trista, is that you?”

Morgan. The tension drained from her body and she felt a moment of relief. Then she wondered what in the world he was doing here. Was he checking up on her? Or worse, snooping behind her back?

“Yes, it’s me,” she called back. “The person who lives here.” As she spoke, she shut the door behind her and followed the sound of his voice.

“About time you showed up. I got your message, but couldn’t reach you at the office or at home. So I decided I’d better come over here and check things out for myself.”

“I had lunch with Suni, then ran a few errands.” She paused at the bedroom door. She’d been expecting a return message from Morgan on her machine when she got home—not his physical presence.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He was leaning out of the window, screwdriver in hand. His sport coat was strewn across the cream cotton of her bedspread, and the sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to his elbows.

Morgan spared her a quick, impatient glance. “Installing window locks. What does it look like? You already know how easy it is for someone to climb up to your balcony. And these windows of yours are so simple to break into, even a kid could do it. I’ve already taken care of your patio door. This is the last. It would be much easier if you’d hold this damn window open for me, though. It keeps crashing down on my head.”

Reluctantly Trista stepped forward. “You didn’t need to do this.”

He ignored her protestation, instead guiding her hands to the bottom of the heavy wooden window. “That’s right. Hold it up as high as you can while I attach this mechanism to the bottom of the frame.”

She tried to avoid touching him, but it was impossible. His back pressed against her side as he fussed with aligning the screws. Despite the layers of clothing separating them, it was impossible not to feel the straining of his muscles, the seductive warmth of his body heat.

Against her will her body responded. Her breathing became shallow and fast. Her heart raced. Her body throbbed and tingled much as it had last night, no matter how hard she tried to deny it. Morgan shifted his position. Now the arm that had pressed against her shoulder brushed gently against the side of her breast, and Trista pulled away as suddenly as if she’d been scalded by hot water.

“Watch it!” Morgan grabbed at the frame a split second before it landed on the back of his skull.

“Sorry.” She repositioned herself and took a fresh grip on the window, turning her head away from him so she couldn’t watch him work. She stared at the dresser on the wall in front of her, her gaze traveling up the large oval mirror, stopping suddenly as she caught his look in the reflection. For a second he paused and she read in his expression a hint of the smoldering passion she’d seen there last night. So he felt it, too.

In the space of a second his expression changed, turning cold and hard. He looked at her the way she imagined a murderer might look at his victim before he squeezed the trigger. It wasn’t just anger. He despised her. Maybe even hated her. She felt her insides turn to ice, shocked and frightened by the intensity of his emotion. She looked away from the mirror, turning her glance even higher, concentrating on the patterns in the stippled ceiling.

“Will you please tell me why you’re doing this? You’re not my husband anymore. It’s not up to you to look after me.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” He twisted the screwdriver one more time, then threw it on the bed. “You can let go now.”

Trista rubbed the circulation back into her arms as he showed her how the new lock worked.

“Thanks,” she said hesitantly, turning her back as he reached for his jacket. After a few seconds of silence she glanced over her shoulder and found him standing, arms crossed over his chest.

“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice bitter. “You really couldn’t care less, could you? About me, or our marriage…”

“Always so quick to pass judgment, aren’t you, Morgan? You have no idea how I feel—”

“Oh don’t I? Didn’t I lose a child, too?”