"This is Valerie's calendar book," Dimonte said. "The last entry was made yesterday." His smile widened. His head was held high. His chest puffed out like a rooster about to get laid.

"Okay, poker face," Myron said. "What's it say?"

He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday's entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:

D.R. 555-8705. Call!

555-8705. Duane's phone number. D.R. Duane Rich-wood.

Dimonte appeared gleeful.

"I'd like to talk to my client," Myron said. "Alone."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes."

"I'm his attorney-"

"I don't give a rat's ass if you're the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs."

"You don't have anything," Myron said. "His phone number is in her book. Means nothing."

Dimonte nodded. "But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis's newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors."

"Are you threatening us?"

Dimonte put his hand to his chest. "Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?"

The Pad did not look up. "Nope."

"There. You see?"

"I'll sue your ass for wrongful arrest," Myron said.

"And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that's going to do you."

Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.

Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray-Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. "Look, man, I don't know why my number is in her book. I don't know her. I never spoke to her on the phone."

"Your phone is unlisted. Is that correct, Mr. Rich-wood?"

"Yeah."