"Absent friends," said Stupenagel, raising her glass. She drank deeply, sighed. "Oh, this is good. I should come here more often." She plopped herself down on the couch and stretched out her legs, which were draped in a full shin-length skirt of black wool. Murrow estimated that these legs were very nearly as long as he was.

"I thought you were in Afghanistan," said Karp.

"Oh, I was, I was, but it's winter and the facilities are not all one might wish. They should only stage wars in warm climates. Plus the men won't talk to you, and how many stories can you read about the plight of Afghan women? So I'm back in what I think I now have to call my homeland. How's Marlene?"

The abrupt change of subject was a reporter's trick, but it was a prosecutor's trick, too, and Karp was not discommoded. "She's fine. You should go see her."

"She's still with that kennel business out on the ass end of the island?"

"The dog farm, yes. Business is booming, I hear. Security dogs are a hot item nowadays."

"I'm not a dog person myself. I hear you're breaking up."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Around. I'm a reporter. Is it true? Because if it is, I want to get on the Karp short list."

"You're supposed to be her friend, Stupenagel."

"I am! Ciampi is my dearest pal in the whole wide world, but do you know how few men on the planet there are that I don't have to look down at their bald spot? Of those, eliminate the brainless, the evil, the smelly, the faggots, the needle dicks, what have you got left? You and Bill Bradley, and Bill turned me down already. Ciampi's only five-four. It's not fair."

"No, it's not, and as flattering as it is, I have to tell you I'm not on the market." An image of what it would be like to be in bed with Ariadne Stupenagel crossed unbidden across Karp's interior TV. He had to look away from her then, and his eyes fell on Murrow, who was staring at them, as if at a show.