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miniature brass padlock dangled from an ornate latch. “This is a very peculiar purse, Niobe.”
    â€œIt’s not a purse,” Niobe said. “It’s a mascot.”
    Wiping the crumbs from her hands, Niobe smartly slapped the top of the box. From inside erupted a shrieking blast of angry chirps, accompanied by a furious scratching against the wire. Two sharp yellow claws and a bit of puffy yellow feather shot out through one of the wire grates. The whole box rocked on the tabletop. “It’s a canary,” she told them.
    Valentine and Clarisse glanced at one another. Valentine leaned down cautiously to peer inside.
    Without asking permission, Niobe got up and opened the refrigerator. She looked about inside and took out a small plastic container of leftover meat loaf and returned to the table.
    â€œValentine!” she yelled, yanking the cage over to her place. “Stop making faces at him! You’ll make him sick!”
    â€œDid you give it a name yet?” Valentine asked.
    â€œRodan.”
    â€œAs in Japanese monster movies?” Clarisse asked.
    Niobe took a bit of the cold meat loaf with her fingers and pushed it through the grating. “Here’s breakfast, baby,” she cooed.
    â€œIt’s carnivorous?” Valentine asked incredulously. “It’s a carnivorous canary?”
    Niobe nodded and pushed more meat inside the cage. “The man at the pet shop told me it goes wild over fresh kielbasa, but I think that’s too greasy, don’t you?”
    The cheerleader then sat up and looked at both their empty plates. “You two done eating?” Without waiting for a reply, she flipped open the Herald she’d brought with her.
    Niobe folded the paper carefully into quarters and then held it up for them to see. “Do you recognize this person?” she asked, waving the paper first toward Valentine and then toward Clarisse. She held up a photograph of a clean-shaven young man in a business suit. The caption was concealed by her hand.
    â€œAre we supposed to know him?” Valentine inquired.
    â€œWait, wait.” Niobe turned the paper away from them. “Do you have a pen?”
    Valentine leaned back and retrieved a felt-tip pen from a counter drawer. With it Niobe made rapid short strokes on the photograph. When she clicked the pen shut, she flipped the paper back around again. “Now do you recognize him?” she demanded.
    Niobe had added a thin mustache and a large hat.
    â€œThat shrimp in the cowboy hat!” Clarisse exclaimed without hesitation. “The one who gave me such a hard time last Thursday night.”
    â€œValentine?” Niobe said.
    â€œHis name’s Mike,” said Valentine, troubled. “Why is his picture in the paper?”
    Niobe lifted two fingers, and the bottom of the page dropped down into view. Clarisse’s expression darkened. “Oh, no,” she said.
    Beneath the photograph the headline read: “Police Link Fourth Gay Killing to Necktie Murderer.”
    Niobe relinquished the paper to Clarisse. She crumbled more meat loaf through the wire mesh of Rodan’s cage as Clarisse read the article aloud. Valentine’s mouth creased into a tight frown as he listened. He’d put on his baseball glove and was prodding the supple leather with his closed fingertips.
    â€œAlmost exactly like the last murder,” Clarisse said when she finished. “Bound with his own neckties. No sign of robbery. No indication of sexual activity. Dead at least twenty-four hours and discovered by a friend.”
    Valentine slammed his glove angrily onto the table. Rodan squawked in protest. “At least twenty-four hours,” he repeated bitterly. “Do you know what that means?”
    Niobe looked up. “That in this weather he was a pretty ripe corpse?”
    Valentine shook his head. “Body found late Saturday morning, dead twenty-four hours. Since Friday morning, which