Yeah, thought Jack, putting the screws to ol' Burwell wouldn't exactly be torture.

"All right, Mrs. Burwell. Guess thirteen's your lucky number."

"Good." She blew another gray, hazy ring. "Nathan doesn't want a divorce, you see." "Because…?"

"When I met him, he was a struggling lawyer. It was my inheritance that kept us living high, got him where he is now, and I intend to take it with me-the fortune, I mean. He knows it, and he's in a powerful position to oppose me."

"So you need evidence to get out. I see."

"Not that I want any of it to be made public, you understand? I just want Nathan to be made to see that it's in his best interest to let me, and my twin daughters, and my money go. And-"

"And that's where I come in. I get you, Mrs. Burwell."

LESS THAN A week later, Jack was tailing Nathan Burwell and his chippy to Forty-second Street and taking a seat behind them in the packed Empire Theater. With nothing much to spy on but two heads watching a movie, Jack glanced up to do the same.

Black-and-white B pictures like Wrong Turn were a dime a dozen, made on the cheap and frustrating to watch. There was always a rube taken in and destroyed by some too-slick dame. Jack expected no less from this lengthy roll of lamplit celluloid. In fact, he was set to be bored stiff-but then something interesting happened.

As the treacly music pulsed and swelled, a real knockout entered the picture. Hedda Geist, the female lead, raced forward onto a deserted road, waving at a passing car.

"Stop, please!" she called.

The actress was young and beautiful, with waves of gold flowing over shoulders as creamy smooth as a marble statuette. She looked scared and vulnerable running along in bare feet, wearing a silver gown that cut like moonlight through the evening mist. The garment was ripped at the shoulder and she held it up with one hand while waving at the car with the other.