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Ex's story, for sure, even if the cops let Anita go. But they wouldn’t, said Rob, not in a million years. Airtight case, he said. Some cop buddy had told him so.
    Next morning, about ten-thirty or so, I raced out to get the first edition of the
Ex
. I was surprised they were playing the missing starter story below the fold—I guess they’d decided it was a
Chron
extravaganza, a bit beneath their dignity. I scanned the story quickly, looking for news of Anita. But there wasn’t any.
    I called Rob for late-breaking details. She’d been released.
    * * *
    It was this way. A divorced lady, she’d spent Monday night at her house with her long-term lover. He’d driven her to her offices. At about nine-thirty, just as they were leaving, a neighbor came over to borrow something. The boyfriend dropped her off to teach a class at ten o’clock. Since she lived in San Anselmo, across the Golden Gate Bridge, there was no time for her to have killed Peter between nine-thirty and ten. Even if the boyfriend were lying for her, she had other witnesses to support her at both ends of the half hour.
    Much as I hated to admit it, it looked as if she was innocent. Chris was in court, so I took matters into my own hands. I phoned Anita, wondering whether she’d remember me.
    She did. “Rebecca Schwartz. Have you licked it yet?”
    “Have I licked what?”
    “Procrastination. You’re a terrible procrastinator.”
    “No, I’m not. I mean—I guess I have licked it.” I hadn’t procrastinated in so long I hardly remembered doing it—Anita’s course had done me a lot of good.
    “Good work. What can I do for you?”
    “I’m Chris Nicholson’s partner.”
    “Oh, you’re that Schwartz.”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “Let’s see….” I could almost see Anita consulting her digital watch. “It’s eleven-thirty now and I was planning to play tennis at lunch—I was hoping to pick up a partner, but you’ll do. That is, if you play. Do you?”
    “Am I from Marin County?”
    “Good. Noon at the Golden Gateway Tennis Club.” She spoke so briskly that a person who didn’t know her could get the idea she was being rude. But she wasn’t—she just didn’t have any time to waste. Of course Anita would play tennis at lunchtime. Of course she’d belong to the Golden Gateway club—which was close to her office—instead of the San Francisco Tennis Club, which was south of Market. And of course she’d combine tennis, lunch, and a talk with a lawyer about her dead brother. She hadn’t gotten where she was by wasting time.
    I just had time to go home, get into my tennis togs, and get over there. I wasn’t going to like playing on an empty stomach, but then Peter Martinelli probably didn’t like being dead.
    I was glad I’d dressed at home. Anita was already warming up. She had a good figure, skinny for an Italian. Her bones were not so fine as Peter’s, and she had rather an ordinary, darkish face. But her expensive haircut made the best of it. It also revealed a tightness in her jaw that wasn’t sexy but probably worked to her advantage in business. She looked slightly intimidating—very much the crisp, no-nonsense businesswoman.
    She consulted her watch. “You’re two minutes late.”
    “Mea culpa.”
    “No, that’s not bad. It’s okay, really. I always allow for the other guy being five minutes late. Have you ever noticed how few people are punctual?”
    “Often, ever since I took your course.”
    “You’re a good student. Want to warm up?”
    I shook my head. “Let’s just play.”
    She had a strong serve and terrific focus. Her small brown eyes were everywhere at once. Oddly, her hair seemed not to move as she whipped around the court, even after it was dripping from perspiration. Which it was after about ten minutes. Mine was, too. We were almost well matched—at any rate, I was able to keep her moving, a good trick with my stomach growling the way it was. But I couldn’t win. Each game was a struggle,