Hark!

'I really do.'

'Dream on,' Eileen said.

WHEN MELISSA GOT back to the apartment that evening, the first thing he did was ask her to model the wigs.

Her natural hair color — well, as natural as Miss Clairol could make it — was what they called 'Spring Honey,' a sort of soft blondish hue that she felt suited her chocolate-brown eyes. In a wig shop on Sakonsett Street — which name she supposed derived from the American Indians who had once inhabited this island — she'd found a wig shop named Hair Today that was having what it called its 'Late Spring' sale. There were sales going on all over this city, and nobody could tell her this had nothing to do with the shitty economy. She'd bought two wigs — well, gee, these prices! — a red one in a sort of feather cut like the one she wore her own hair in, and a black one, shoulder length with bangs across the forehead. Looked s-o-oo natural with her brown eyes. Cost a bit less than a hundred each, including tax.

'Nice,' he said. 'You don't look at all like yourself.' 'Is that supposed to be a compliment?' she asked. She'd gone to bed with guys who'd asked her to wear

wigs, and then complained that the drapes didn't match the carpet, any excuse to bat her around, some of these creeps you met.

She sure hoped this wasn't going to be the case here tonight.

The wigs and all.

'WELL, I HAVE to tell you,' Willis said, 'this only confirms my theory that you should never go see a movie anybody both wrote and directed.'

They had just come out of the theater and were strolling up the avenue, most of the shops already closed, the evening still somewhat balmy.

'I kind of liked it,' Eileen said.

You did? Even though it withheld facts we needed to know? I mean, to solve the crime?

"Well, you're a cop. You'd naturally be looking for something like that.'

You're a cop, too. Don't you think he should have given us, like . . . some clues'?

'I was more interested in the personal story. I think women look more for that.'

"Witholding evidence doesn't bother you?'

'Only if the Deaf Man does it.'

'This was worse than what the Deaf Man's doing. At least he's playing fair. He gives us everything we need to know . . .'

'We hope.'

'. . . and if we're too dumb to figure it out, that's our own hard luck.'

'Wanna go for some coffee or something?' she asked.

Yes,' Willis said, but he was just gathering steam.

As they walked up the avenue toward a coffee shop on

the corner, and while they ordered, and even after they'd been served, he went on to say that a lot of the movies he saw nowadays claimed to be mysteries in one way or another, and being a cop whose profession was investigating crime, he felt like shooting the damn auteur directors who made these films.

'Uh-huh,' Eileen said. 'Like which movies do you

mean?'

'Any movie that says "written and directed by.'" 'You've got a real thing about that, huh?' 'No, it's just that. . . well, figure it out for yourself. Most writers can't direct, am I right? And most directors can't write. So when you get a movie that's both written and directed by the same person, run for the hills!' 'You really think so, huh?'

'I really think so. Male or female, if it's written and directed by, that's exactly like "Conspiracy to Commit," or "Criminal Facilitation," or "Hindering Prosecution," all of them pretty damn serious crimes.' 'My, such passion!' Eileen said.

'Well, it just isn't fair,' he said, and ducked his head and smiled sheepishly, as though he'd revealed something about himself that might better have stayed concealed. Again, she felt like reaching across the table and taking his hand.

Outside the coffee shop, they went their separate ways. After all, this hadn't been a real date. This had just been two cops having dinner together, and seeing a movie afterward, sharing coffee, sharing a bit of movie

criticism.

She hadn't asked him anything abut Marilyn Hollis. And he hadn't asked her anything about Bert Kling. And tomorrow was another working day.

'STARTING TOMORROW MORNING,' the Deaf Man was saying, 'there'll be notes delivered to the 87th Precinct every day but Sunday.'

'Why not Sunday?' Melissa asked.

'Because even God rested on Sunday.'

'Oh, I see. And what will these notes say?'

You don't have to know that.'

'Starting tomorrow, you say?'

Yes. And continuing through Saturday.'

'That means . . . what's today?'

'The fourth.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, it's almost midnight, almost the fifth.'

'That means the last notes will be delivered on June twelfth.'

Yes.'

'Is that when you're going to do this thing, whatever it is? On June twelfth?'

Yes.'

'What is it you're going to do?'

You don't have to know that.'

'Then why are you telling me all this?'

'Because you'll be delivering the notes.'

'Oh no. Me walk into a police station? Not on your life!'

'Not you personally,' he explained patiently. You'll have to find people who'll deliver the notes for you.'

'It'll still come right back to me. There's no way I would ever do anything like that. Why would I want to do anything like that?'

'Because I'm going to give you thirty-five thousand dollars to do it.'

You are?'

'I am. Five thousand dollars a day for tomorrow, and the six days next week.'

'Gee,' she said.

'That should be enough to buy you the people you need, don't you think?' 'Well, I guess so, yes.' "With quite a bit left over for your trouble, I would

expect.'

'I would expect.'

'You could buy yourself some nice lingerie.'

'I certainly could.'

'Or something.'

'Or something, yes.'

'And there's a lot more coming, Lissie. We're talking seven figures in the coffers here.'

She was remembering that she'd taken eighteen million out of that safe-deposit box for him. Was he talking about seven figures in addition to that? Should she ask? Why not?

'In addition to the other money, you mean?' she said. 'The money from the bank?' 'In addition, yes.' 'Seven figures has to be at least another million,

right?'

'At least,' he said.

'And what's my share of that?' she asked.

'Mustn't be greedy, girl,' he said.

Why not? she thought. And don't call me girl, she thought. But did not say.

'How does a vacation in Tortola sound?' he asked. 'After this is all over?'

'A vacation in Tortola might be very nice,' she said,

'but. . .'

'I've already booked the flight,' he said. 'We leave at nine-thirty Sunday morning, the thirteenth of June. Doesn't that sound nice?'

'Not as nice as a piece of seven figures.'

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. Still chuckling, he said, 'Well, I suppose one can never be too rich or too thin.'

'I'll say.'

'Do you know who said that, Lissie?'

'No, who?'

'The Duchess of Windsor.'

'Who's that?'

A king gave up an empire for her.'

'She must have been very beautiful.'

'Not half as beautiful as you.'

Melissa wondered if he was telling her he'd give up an empire for her. Maybe cut her in on that seven figures he'd just mentioned? She didn't ask. Play the cards you're dealt, she thought. So far, she was a hundred thousand K richer than she'd been before she picked him up in that hotel bar. Or vice versa. Not to mention the sable coat and the mink stole.

'Do you think you can get those notes delivered when they're supposed to be delivered?'

'I think so, yes,' she said. 'But. . . uh . . . these people I hire to deliver them?'

'Yes?'

'They'll be able to describe me, won't they? They'll tell the police exactly what I look like.'

'That's where the wigs come in,' he said.