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about an ongoing investigation with a reporter.”
    “Our paper is going to print a story including the fact that you were interrogated for hours today, and may be a suspect in the murder. Don’t you want the article to include your point of view?”
    “You’re going to write that I’m a suspect?”
    “That you may be a suspect.”
    “That’s irresponsible and outrageous! I’m not a suspect.”
    “How do you know?”
    I stared at him, speechless. I reached for my glass and finished the last of my second martini. Martinis tasted better, I’d discovered over the years, the more you drink them. I didn’t answer. Instead, I ate a shrimp slowly, thinking about what I should do or say.
    “Why do you think I’m a suspect?” I asked, relieved that I sounded calm and in control.
    “Answer a question with a question, huh?” Wes said with a smile. “Okay. I’ll play. Apparently you were the first person questioned. You were interviewed ,” he said, stressing the word “interviewed” as if to mock my earlier usage, “in an interrogation room, and you were there for more than two hours.” He shrugged. “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck ...”
    As I listened, I realized he was right and that I was in deeper trouble than I’d realized.
    I didn’t say another word to Wes, not even that I wouldn’t comment. Instead I stood up and signaled Jimmy that I wanted my check. While I waited, I ate another shrimp. Wes said something, but I wasn’t listening. When the check arrived, I paid it, and without a backwards glance, I left.
    In my car, I turned on my cell phone to call Max. Rooting through my purse to find my address book, I came across Chief Alverez’s card. I perched it on my thigh, found the address book, and called Max’s office. A cheerful voice told me that he wasn’t there. I tried his home number, but got a machine and hung up before the beep. His cell phone went to voice mail and I left a message. I looked at Alverez’s card. It listed his cell phone number, and on impulse, I dialed it.
    He answered on the second ring with a curt, “Alverez.”
    “It’s Josie Prescott.”
    “Well, hello,” he said.
    His tone had changed. I thought I heard warmth instead of curtness, and I felt some relief. Maybe my instincts weren’t out of whack. Maybe it would be safe to talk openly to him.
    “I have a question.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Wes Smith from the Star tried to interview me.”
    “He did, did he? What did you tell him?”
    “Nothing. But he said that the newspaper is going to print a story tomorrow referring to me as maybe a suspect. That’s my question. Am I?”
    I could hear him breathing. “Where are you?” he asked.
    I remembered Wes remarking that I was answering a question with a question. I’d done it to avoid answering the one he’d asked. I shivered, fear chilling me.
    “Why?” I asked.
    “This sounds like a situation we should talk about.”
    “I have a call in to Max,” I responded.
    “Makes sense,” he answered, and I felt a wave of terror wash over me. Now I knew: I was, in fact, a suspect. I heard the click of call waiting, told Alverez I had to go, and switched over to the other call. It was Max. I told him about Wes and Alverez.
    “Where are you?” Max asked.
    “In my car. In Portsmouth.”
    “Stay there. I’ll call you right back.”
    I waited and watched the world go by. I saw a couple walk by arm in arm, shoulders touching, laughing. Two women stopped for a moment, deep in conversation, then continued down the street. A man walking a boxer struggled to control the dog’s impatience to run ahead. An old woman with a limp made slow progress along Ceres Street. The phone rang.
    “It’s me, Josie,” Max said. “First, don’t call Alverez. Call me. Agreed?”
    “Okay,” I said, feeling like a fool.
    “Second, Alverez was very professional. He refused to call you a suspect, which is good news, but in reality, it doesn’t much matter because even if