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husband of Terri, Ray’s paramour before the Mob princess; presumably the parents of Julie Anne Podowsky, the worst modern literature student ever to grace my classroom; and probably dozens of other spouses, boyfriends, fathers, and brothers of the women that Ray had slept with over the years and had dumped when he was done. Not to mention the actual women. I didn’t have any family to blame, fortunately; I’m an only child, and my father—the most gentle of French-Canadian men—had been dead for nearly twenty years. Unless Uncle Claude in Baie-St.-Paul in Quebec had heard of Ray’s philandering ways and had decided to kill him on my behalf, I had no viable suspects on my side of the family.
    â€œAnd you?” she asked. “Where were you between the hours of two and six?”
    â€œI was teaching and then I went to dinner with a friend. Who’s a priest,” I added helpfully. Who wouldn’t believe a priest?
    She stared at me for a few minutes. “I can check that alibi, you know.”
    â€œPlease do,” I said, holding her gaze. I prayed that my students had been awake and would know that it was I who had taught their classes that day. There was a good percentage of them who didn’t even know what class they were taking, never mind the name of their instructor.
    She continued to stare at me. I spied Crawford’s face in the glass pane of the door. Yep, still gorgeous. Madden turned around when she saw my attention on the door and beckoned him to come in. “Can I help you?” she asked.
    â€œDetective Crawford, NYPD,” he said, flashing his gold shield and shaking her hand. “I’m a friend of Dr. Bergeron’s.” He put his shield away. “I have some information about this case, too. Can we step outside?”
    I tried to eavesdrop on what they were talking about but I couldn’t hear anything. I watched them through the window in the door. Madden got a concerned look on her face and scurried off down the hall. Crawford watched her move away and came into the room.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    I nodded. “I know.”
    He stood by the table and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Listen, I have something to tell you.”
    He imparted some truly sobering news: Ray’s hands and feet had been found next to a horse stable in Van Cortlandt Park. It was the one detail that completed the story of Ray’s demise and moved me from a state of shock to one of pronounced grief. I’m not sure why, but it was in that moment that I realized just how much Ray had suffered, and any feelings of ill will that I may have had toward him melted away in a flood of hot tears.

Chapter 4
    My other best friend—the one who isn’t the priest—defies description but I’ll give it a shot.
    Her name is Max, she’s all of five feet two and a hundred pounds, but gorgeous and sexy in a way that many women attempt but few succeed at. She comes off as a total dumbbell, but in reality, she has an IQ of one hundred and sixty, runs a cable television station, and can add, subtract, multiply, and divide numbers in her head with a speed that is frightening. Especially if they pertain to the ratings of one of her shows, like the illustrious twenty-part reality series Housewives: The True, Untold Story of Their Lives, Loves, and Passions .
    I spent a few nights billeted at her Tribeca apartment in the guest room, which reminded me why I never wanted to live with Max ever again. She keeps weird hours, has strange dietary habits, and engages in loud phone sex. But she’s also loving, kind, and was willing to put me up and take me out to dinner until my house was restored to a blood-free state, a time period of about a week.
    We didn’t really talk about Ray that much; Max hated Ray and I’m sure that his death, while gruesome, wasn’t a tragedy to her. For me, there was no handbook on dealing with your ex’s