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fascinated by what she saw reflected in it; she was a creature new to the earth, and most things fascinated her—she ate ravenously of fruit and meat and went out into the night.
    She was a creature of the darkness. She loved darkness. She saw well in it; she saw, in fact, many things in darkness that were hidden to the eyes of others.
    She walked with the grace, certainty, and stealth of a predator, which, to onlookers, was a sensual walk, alluring and fantastic. It was the walk of sex, which is the walk of power. Men turned to look at her, and women did, too, because she was unlike any human they had seen before.

Chapter Seven
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    W hen Mark Smalley interviewed Noreen Helen Obermier's friends and relatives, he could find no one who could connect her to Erthmun. This made Smalley confused and angry, because he was certain there was a connection. A man simply doesn't call a dead woman by name if he doesn't know her—Erthmun wasn't psychic , for Christ's sake!
    And now he—Smalley—thought it would be smart to begin interviewing Erthmun's relatives. His sister, Sylvia Grant, lived on Staten Island, and though Smalley could telephone her, he decided it would be best to talk to her in person. He decided this because he was convinced that women could not easily lie to him face-to-face. It was clear that he intimidated them because he was tall, strong, and athletic-looking, quick with a one-liner, and not easily surprised. He thought that men often saw this winning combination as a challenge, but that women, even women cops, found his rock-hard sensuality, his probing intelligence, his wit, and his charm impossible to resist. And though they might try to lie to him, they always gave themselves away—a bat of the eye, a twitch of the hand, a blush, an awkward sideways glance. Sometimes they held his gaze too long, or not long enough. Sometimes, if they were dressed right, he could tell that they were lying because their nipples erected. He found this fascinating, and had wondered if it bore some parallel to lying and male erections. Perhaps all lying was somehow tied to sex. Perhaps all wrongdoing was tied to sex.
    He did not telephone Sylvia Grant first. He had hoped to find her home, but if he didn't, then it was all right. He'd come back another day and catch her by surprise.
    But she was home. She invited him into her house—after he told her who he was, and after she made him produce his badge to prove it—and led him into her spacious, well-appointed living room. He thought she didn't look at all like Erthmun—she was blonde, thin, very tall—and he wondered if they were really brother and sister.
    She said, when he was seated in a Queen Anne love seat that was too small and straight-backed for anyone's comfort, "Could I offer you a refreshment of some kind, Detective? Some tea, perhaps a glass of lemonade?"
    He shook his head, said, "No, thanks, I won't be long. I only have a question or two."
    "As you wish," she said, smiled graciously, and sat across from him in another Queen Anne love seat. "Is Jack in trouble?" she said, still smiling.
    "No. There are merely some questions we'd like answered."
    "And that's why you're here, of course." She was still smiling. It pleased him. People who smiled too much were people who lied.
    "Yes," he said, "that's why I'm here."
    "You say you're with Internal Affairs, Mr. Smalley?"
    "That's correct."
    "And you're investigating Jack?"
    He nodded. "Yes."
    "Then he is in trouble." She was still smiling.
    Smalley shook his head. Her continuous smiling was beginning to annoy him. "He's not in trouble, Mrs. Grant."
    "But he may soon be in trouble, isn't that right?"
    He ignored the question. "Could you tell me about Jack's friends? Particularly his girlfriends."
    "He doesn't have any."
    "He doesn't have any friends?"
    "He doesn't have any girlfriends. Not at the moment anyway. Actually, I don't think he ever did."
    Smalley cracked a quick smile. Her first