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something on. Then I went to the front of the apartment, to the window. And then—” Suddenly her throat closed, a sharp, sudden spasm. “Then I—I saw him. He was—” She couldn’t finish it. She could only shake her head mutely. Perhaps to give her time, Hastings was rising, crossing to the window, looking down. Then he returned to his chair, saying, “He’s lying across the street, and the light isn’t very good. How could you be sure it was him?”
    “I knew. I just knew.” Was she talking loudly? Too loudly? Too insistently?
    “You knew? How?”
    “Well, he—he’d just left, for one thing. And his car was still there, across the street. I—I think that’s how I knew, how I was sure. Because of the car.”
    “Did you take any action? Call the police? Call nine-one-one?
    “No, I—I didn’t. I—I couldn’t seem to think.”
    He nodded. “That’s understandable. You were …” He paused, searching for the word. “You were close, the two of you.”
    “Yes—close.” Somehow she suddenly felt ridiculous, repeating the single word close. Was that all there was to say? Lovers—passionate lovers—for three months. All reduced to close.
    “After the first policeman arrived, though, you talked to him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you go downstairs and talk to him? Or did he come up here?”
    “I went down. I—I thought I should help. Tell them his name, tell them about the car.”
    “I wonder …” The detective paused, studying her. Then, apparently having come to a decision: “I wonder whether you could tell me what kind of a man Brice Hanchett was.”
    “I …” She frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “I mean, give me a description of him. Was he even-tempered? Hotheaded? Did he make enemies? Was he cautious, or was he reckless? Things like that.” Transparently trying to put her at ease, reassure her, he smiled. “I’m looking for impressions. No big deal. I won’t repeat what you say.”
    Her answering smile twisted ruefully. “Hot-tempered, even-tempered, that’s easy. He had a terrible temper. At least on the job, he supposedly had a terrible temper.”
    “What about privately? Did he have a temper privately, would you say?”
    Considering the question, how best to answer, to be fair, she let her eyes wander. Then, speaking deliberately, she said, “Brice was a very intelligent, very attractive, very vital man. He was one of those people who have it all. His personality—well, it was very powerful, very compelling. And he had the ego to match. He was a very egocentric man. When everything was going his way, he was charming. But cross him, and sparks flew. Big, bright sparks.”
    “Did he hold a grudge? Was he that kind of a man?”
    She nodded. “I suppose he did. But no more than the next man, I’d say. If Brice got in a fight, he usually won. And winners don’t hold grudges. At least Brice didn’t. As long as he got his way, there weren’t any problems.”
    “By ‘fight,’ I presume you mean verbally. Not physical fights.”
    She hesitated. Then she nodded again. “Yes. Right.”
    Hastings folded his notebook, clipped his ballpoint pen to an inside pocket. “This’ll probably turn out to be a street hoodlum who panicked and pulled the trigger by accident. An attempted robbery, in other words. At least that’s the way I’d bet.” A pause. Then, quietly: “Is that how you’d bet, Mrs. Pfiefer?”
    Behind the question she could sense some secret meaning. But what? Why? How much did Hastings really know?
    “I—I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “What I mean is, if it turns out not to be robbery, or attempted robbery, do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Dr. Hanchett?” A moment passed as they eyed each other. Then: “Your husband, for instance. Is he—was he—jealous of Dr. Hanchett?”
    “Are you saying—suggesting—that Jason would—” Incredulously, she began shaking her head as she felt anger growing, warming her. A small