WHEN WE'RE IN THE CAR, IT SUDDENLY OCCURS to me that there were no paparazzi at the courthouse. A bloody carcass doesn't attract vultures faster than a celebrity in trouble attracts the media. I half turn in the seat to look at Gloria.

"How'd you pull it off?"

I don't have to explain what I mean. She waves a hand. "My lawyer let it leak that I'd be arraigned at one this afternoon. Oops."

I have to admire his ingenuity though I pity the guy who walks out of the courthouse on a pandering charge and has a hundred flashbulbs go off in his face. I crank over the engine.

David's place has always been home to Gloria in San Diego. Since she knows better than to think I'd take her there, I ask, "Where are you staying?"

"I thought I'd stay with you."

The ten thousand reasons why that is not going to happen bubble to my lips like a geyser ready to spew. Luckily, I stifle the eruption when I realize she's kidding. I know she's kidding because she's staring at me with a "gotcha" smirk on her face.

"I have a suite at the Four Seasons," she says.

"I should have guessed. Where else would you stay but the most expensive hotel in San Diego?"

She ignores the sarcasm, rests her head against the seat and closes her eyes. I accelerate away from the curb. At least she's riding in front with me. If she'd gotten into the backseat, I might have been tempted to kick her skinny ass right out of the car.

She's quiet on the ride to the hotel. I use the time to concentrate on that kid and where I've seen him before. It won't come. I'm not worried, though. I know I'll remember. Something will trip the memory and his identity will float to the surface of my subconscious like pond scum.

The Four Seasons is San Diego's newest and finest. We pull up to the front entrance and a valet is there to open my door before we've come to a complete stop. Another valet is at Gloria's door, gushing like an excited schoolboy when he recognizes her. He either doesn't know or doesn't care that she's coming from a night in jail. He rushes past us to open the door to the lobby. Gloria sweeps past him like the queen with her livery.

I follow after getting the valet ticket. No one rushes to open the door for me. I'm only her driver.

Gloria is at the front desk, collecting messages and her key. At least she waits for me to catch up before starting for the elevator. She goes straight to the elevator cordoned off with a red rope. A uniformed bellboy opens it for her and we pass into a car with only two stop buttons. PH1 and PH2. She inserts a key card and hits PH2.

The elevator whisks us up in perfumed silence and whispers to a stop. The door opens into the suite's marble foyer. It's a setup I've only seen in movies. There is a fountain, lots of greenery, and a carved, twelve-foot-high double door. She opens it with the same key card she used in the elevator and steps aside so I can go in first.

I've been in a lot of beautiful homes and hotel rooms, but nothing like this. The penthouse faces west with a view over the city, over Pacific Coast Highway, over a vast expanse of ocean. It's an unobstructed view, inside and out, both because we're twenty stories up and because the entire wall is made of glass. No structural beams or window frames. How they did it, I couldn't begin to guess. There is furniture on both sides of the glass, classical leather pieces on the inside, wicker chairs and lounges on a terrace outside. It's breathtaking.

It becomes more so when Gloria presses a button and the "wall" retracts. The salt-air smell of ocean wafts in.

Gloria takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"God. I was afraid I'd never smell fresh air again." She tosses her key and the stack of messages on a small mahogany table near the couch. Not all of the messages, though. Before starting for a door to the right of the living room, she extracts three from the pile and palms them. She calls back to me, "I'm going to shower and change. There's coffee in the kitchen. Order room service if you're hungry. I can't stay in these clothes another minute."

She doesn't wait for a reply but disappears into what I assume is the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I wonder whose messages she so subtly removed. She obviously didn't want me to see who left them. Takes all the fun out of being nosy if the object of your snooping is on to you. I go through the ones she left behind anyway. Nothing but calls from print reporters representing everything from the Enquirer to the Wall Street Journal.

She took the interesting ones with her.

I wander in the opposite direction, finding the kitchen behind another of those carved doors. There's a coffeemaker already set up on the counter. I push the button and beans grind, water filters and coffee drips into a cut-glass decanter.

A coffeemaker with a crystal decanter. Why am I surprised?

There's something else on the counter. A copy of a search warrant. The objects of the search include a gun and a key card. Since there are no accompanying receipts, the police left with nothing.

All the same, I open cupboards and look on my own. What I find is everything the type of person who can afford to stay here would need for spur of the moment entertaining . . . tins of foie gras and caviar, sleeves of toast points and wafer-thin crackers, expensive chocolates. More exploring finds the wine cooler hidden behind cherry cabinet doors, six bottles of wine and six bottles of champagne. China, crystal, a silver service, gold-leaf flatware.

I sniff, letting vampire senses kick in. No residual smell of blood means there were no bloody clothes stuffed in any of these corners. No smell of cordite or oil. No gun, either.

A low, muted chime announces that the coffee is ready. I grab a coffee cup and close the cupboards. I didn't really expect that there would be anything to find. Gloria is vain and selfish, arrogant and narcissistic. But she isn't stupid.

Besides, I don't think she had a chance to come back here last night. She was at the restaurant with David and me and then she was in jail. Judging by the looks of the place, the hotel must have a concierge service on call to clean up after a warrant search. The place is immaculate.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and doctor it with cream (real, none of that flavored crap) and sugar, and have taken a seat on a chaise on the terrace when Gloria rejoins me. Her skin glows, her wet hair falls in waves around her face. She has on pale yellow silk pajamas that look both tailored and expensive. Wearily, she falls into a chair opposite me. She gestures toward my cup.

"Any more coffee?"

My evil twin wants to say, "Yeah, in the kitchen. Do I look like a gofer?" The fatigue in her eyes, however, unleashes a rare moment of compassion and I find myself getting up, going into the kitchen and pouring her a cup. I'm not compassionate enough to ask if she wants cream or sugar, though.

She accepts the black coffee with a grateful smile. After drinking a moment or two in silence, she says, "What do we do now?"

I place my cup down on the glass-topped table between us. "Now you tell me about Rory. Anything that will point me to someone other than you with a motive to want him dead."

She tilts her head, eyeing me over the cup. "I really don't know anything. We didn't tell each other personal things. There was no need."

I start to say something nasty about her lack of moral fiber when Lance and last night's escapade flashes into my head. Okay. So if you asked me to tell you anything personal about Lance, like where he lives or who his enemies are, I wouldn't be able to answer, either.

On the other hand, I didn't go into business with the guy or cheat on my boyfriend with him.

"I know you spent your time screwing, but you must have come up for air once in a while. Did you ever overhear a telephone conversation that seemed off? Ever see anything that particularly disturbed O'Sullivan or made him mad?"

Gloria ignores my tone and lets her gaze drift out across the sea. After a moment, she replies, "Not really."

"Not really? Come on, Gloria. Think. This is going to be the shortest investigation in history if you don't give me something to work with. The suit he threatened you with. He suspected you of embezzling?"

She waves a hand. "It was harassment. He kept the books, for god's sake. He knew there were no missing funds. It was another ploy to get me to back down. To resume our relationship."

"I'll need to see that note. Is it still at the restaurant?"

She nods. "I'll call the manager and tell him to give you access to the office. Is there anything else?"

"Is there anything else?" I'm having a hard time reconciling this lethargic Gloria with the sharp-tongued harpy I'm used to. "Yeah, Gloria, there's something else. Why did you go to Rory's house yesterday? He was blackmailing you for sex. He was alone. You weren't afraid he'd force himself on you?"

Gloria isn't listening. She's focusing on the coffee cup in her hand. A hand that begins to tremble. She places the cup carefully on the table.

That's when it hits me. "Did you take something, Gloria? A sedative or a tranquilizer?"

This time when she looks at me, I see it. The dilated pupils, the glassy stare. "You did, didn't you?"

"I didn't get a moment's sleep last night. I'm so tired."

Great. "Stay with me. Tell me about O'Sullivan's home life. How did his wife act toward you in public? Did she ever let on that she knew the two of you were fuck buddies?"

A spark of life. Gloria leans forward. "If Laura knew we were having an affair, she never let on. Never. We had dinner, the three of us, many times. Sometimes, in the beginning, David joined us, too."

"You had dinner with David and Rory and his wife while you were screwing Rory. Balls of steel, Gloria. No wonder his wife has it in for you."

"I know what she told the reporters," she says. "She lied. I don't think she knew a thing about Rory and me."

"At least until last night."

"Until last night."

I shake my head. "You're sure O'Sullivan didn't say anything to his wife sooner? She says he confessed the affair weeks ago and she forgave him."

Gloria narrows her eyes. "Let me ask you something. If your husband confessed he was having an affair, would you invite the woman to his birthday party? Or a few days ago, invite her to your home for lunch?"

"Only if strychnine was on the menu."

She bobs her head. "Exactly. I'm the actress. There's absolutely no way Laura could have treated me the way she did if she'd known Rory and I were having an affair. She's his second wife, by the way. The trophy wife. She knew him. She'd have her sensors out for any indication that he was being unfaithful. She'd recognize the signs. After all, it's how she hooked him. She worked as his personal assistant. Emphasis on the personal."

Gloria watches me as she spins her tale. It sounds like motive enough. The second wife protecting her turf against the perceived usurper. It's neat and tidy. It could well be true. All the same, Gloria seems to be overlooking one important fact. While the current Mrs. O'Sullivan may not be an actress, the story she spun for the police was convincing enough to land Gloria in jail.

"I'll look into the wife's background. See if she has a gun registered in her name."

"Your friend, Chief Williams, should be able to help you, right? He'll give you access to the police reports?"

I shake my head. "He's on administrative leave. I don't have a contact in the department right now. Your lawyer will have access to those things. Call Sutherland and have the reports faxed to my office. You have the number."

I drain the last of the coffee and stand.

Gloria does, too. She extends her hand. "I'll call right now. Thank you, Anna. For doing this. I know you don't want to."

I return the handshake. Oh, but I do want to. The smile on my face must look to Gloria like a gesture of goodwill. The truth is, it's a gesture of good riddance. One way or the other, Gloria is soon to be history.

I can hardly wait for her to be gone.