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flagstone walk along the side of the house and a flower bed—well, decorative shrubs and small rosebushes—along the fence. Madeleine followed me with due regard for her nylons.
    “It must be pretty when they’re in bloom,” she said. “I didn’t know you were a gardener.”
    “I inherited the staff. It seemed a pity to let it all die, the old lady had spent a lot of time and love on it, so I have a man come in once a week. . . . Okay. Do you see that knothole in the fence over there near the gate? Take a peek through it and I’ll tell you what you see.”
    “Isn’t this kind of silly?” Madeleine asked, making her way to the indicated spot. “Why don’t you just tell me—” But she rose on tiptoe to look through the hole.
    I spoke in tour-guide fashion: “You are now looking up a typical old Santa Fe thoroughfare, ma’am, with houses and property walls right on the street, not much in the way of sidewalks, no front lawns, a few parked cars. Well, I don’t have to tell you about Santa Fe; you’ve lived here. There’s a gray Honda parked next door on this side, you can just see the rear of it, and a blue Audi across the way. At least they were there just now when we came inside. And somewhere well up the street, with some other heaps, probably on the other side facing this way with a good view of my gate, is an old tan Volvo station wagon. There’s a dark-haired woman sitting behind the wheel. Am I right?”
    Madeleine hesitated. “Oh, up there. Yes, you’re right, although I can’t be sure it’s a woman, but what makes her so special—”
    “They’re very systematic,” I said. “Six-hour shifts; this gal still has a few minutes to go. At noon sharp she’ll be relieved by a skinny young fellow with ragged jeans and a lot of dark beard, driving a white Chevy van. He was the first one I spotted, so I call him Spooky One; the lady is Spooky Three. At six in the evening, One will be replaced by Four, a sharp-looking Latin gent in a suit—with or without a tie depending on the mood of the moment—who’ll take up the watch in a sporty little red Pontiac of some kind. At midnight, a tall blond character in boots, jeans, and a cowboy hat, driving a husky blue Ford pickup with four-wheel drive, one of those jacked-up monsters with a row of lights over the cab, will take over. Spooky Two. At least that describes the costumes and rolling stock as of yesterday; they switch things around occasionally to confuse. . . . Now what’s happening?”
    She’d suddenly become very intent on the knothole. “The station wagon is driving away, but there isn’t any—oh, yes, here comes the van. He’s parking a little closer. Like you said, a real Castro beard." She drew a long breath and turned to face me. “What are you trying to tell me, Matt?”
    “Join the club, baby. We’re all wearing extra shadows these days, it’s the latest fashion.”
    She said sharply, “You mean, you want me to believe you’re being watched, too? What makes you think I’ll fell for a crazy story like that? The way you know their schedule to the minute, they’re probably your bodyguards, assigned to protect you from people you’ve driven crazy, like me. . . . Oh, damn!”
    Intent on our conversation, she’d snagged a stocking, cutting too close to the comer of the flower bed.
    I said, “Why don’t you drop the act, Madeleine?”
    She looked at me for a moment; then she bent over and touched a dampened forefinger to her damaged hose. I’ve never figured out why they do that; do they expect saliva to heal the broken nylon threads magically? She straightened up slowly to face me.
    When she didn’t speak at once, I went on: “It’s the standard toughie-lawyer routine, isn’t it? Intimidate the witness by treating him as guilty and coming at him hard and watching his reactions, hoping he’ll give himself away, one way or the other. But this is Matt, sweetheart. You don’t have to run a bluff on me or put on an act for me.