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something must have scared him away, because nothing was missing. Now . . . Tell me about this woman you met last night. What was her name? Amy something, wasn’t it?”
    “No, that was the woman who was murdered. I never met her. This girl called herself ‘Heather,’ but that’s probably not her real name.”
    I told her the story, from Heather’s request for a drink to reading my name in the paper.
    When I’d finished, she leaned back, crossed her legs at the knee, and said, “That’s fascinating.”
    And all hell broke loose.
    A uniformed policeman burst through the door, gun drawn. Another couple of cops poured out of the bedroom.
    I knew when I’d been beaten. Even if I’d had my gun, I knew better than to draw on cops. People who draw down on policemen tend to have very short life expectancies.
    I put up my hands and let them search me, then went peaceably out to their patrol car, which must have been hidden in a neighbor’s garage.
    I started to cover my face, but thanks to Ashleigh’s photograph, there wasn’t much point. Instead I took a deep breath and tried to exude an aura of dignified innocence.
    Ashleigh trailed along behind us, looking delicate and shaken for the cameras she had obviously invited.
    I looked at her and said, “Once a barracuda, always a barracuda.”
    Her eyes were wide and innocent, brimming with unshed tears.
    The cameras were rolling.

“ O KAY, LET ’ S GO over this again.” Frank Campanella paused to take a gulp of the bitter brew that passed for coffee in the interrogation rooms. His partner on the case, Harry Kominski, was nowhere to be seen, probably watching from behind the two-way mirror.
    In all the years I’d known Harry, I’d heard him say maybe fifteen words. He was the tallest man on the force, which, combined with his reticence, earned him the inevitable nickname ‘Lurch.’ He looked like a dumb galoot. He wasn’t.
    I glanced toward the mirror, told myself to forget about Harry, and focused on Frank’s next question. “How long had you been seeing Mrs. Hartwell?”
    I sighed and splayed my hands on the table. “For the hundredth time, I hadn’t been seeing her. I never even met the woman.”
    “Then why did she have your name in her Palm Pilot in a dozen places?” He pulled out a small black electronic organizer and read, “ ‘Saw Jared today.’ ‘Jared and I fought.’ ‘Jared very angry today.’ ”
    “There are a lot of Jareds in the world.”
    “It says here in the address part, ‘Jared McKean.’ Is this your phone number?” He held it up so my lawyer and I could see it.
    “You know it is.”
    “And your address?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Mrs. Hartwell’s organizer, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never met her.”
    “And yet, she’s got your name all over the place.”
    “So it seems.”
    “Why would she have your name and address in her organizer if she didn’t know you?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.”
    Wallace Aaron, an up-and-coming young attorney whose name I had plucked out of the Yellow Pages, raised his hand in protest. “Detective Campanella, he’s already said he doesn’t know.”
    “Swill.” Frank drained the last of the coffee and tossed the crumpled cup into the wastebasket. “You remember what swill this is?”
    I forced a smile. “I remember.”
    He stole a glance at my attorney, then turned his attention back to me. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is, this stranger you picked up in a bar had sex with you so she could steal your DNA and plant it at a murder scene?”
    “I know it sounds implausible, but . . .”
    “Implausible? Son, it sounds like a bad detective movie.”
    “Detective . . .” Aaron’s tone held a warning.
    Frank sighed and scraped his chair away from the table. “You know, Mac, I never believed any of the things they said about you, how you were feeding information to that reporter you were humping. I always stood up for you.”
    “I know