“In Manhattan, in my apartment, Chief.”

“Well, Alex, there’s been a terrible tragedy here. Terrible.

Was there somebody stayin‘ at your house, somebody you let use it?“

“Yes, Wally, a friend of mine is there. It’s okay, she’ll be staying there for a week or two. It’s no problem, I’ve arranged everything.”

My mind was racing but I had never connected the Vineyard with any kind of crime problem except the occasional house burglary. That’s why it has always been such a refuge for me, a world away from the grim business of investigating and prosecuting rape cases. Someone must have noticed an unfamiliar person coming or going into Daggett’s Pond Way and suspected a burglary.

“Not so easy, Alex. Your friend isn’t staying for as long as you thought. She was shot sometime tonight, see, and my guys found the body a few hours ago. She’s dead, Alex, real dead.”

“Oh my God!” I repeated quietly several times into the telephone mouthpiece. I was incredulous, as people always are when they get this kind of news. And as intimately as I have worked with violence and murder for more than ten years, it had never ruptured the fragile line that separated my personal from my professional life.

“Alex? Alex? Are you alone there?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get someone over to give you a hand with this?”

With what? I thought. What else could anyone do except stare at me while I spun out of control?

Wally continued, “See, the big problem is that we thought it was you who got killed. That’s why we were tryin‘ to find your family, for notification. The press already thinks you’re the dead woman.”

“How did that happen?” I shrieked at him.

“Well, it’s really ugly. We figure that you mean she was riding in a convertible, top down and she had turned off the state road onto that wooded path that leads in to your house. Someone must have been waiting in there for you, and excuse me – just let out a blast which hit her square in the side of her head.”