Crowley and his evidence crew arrived an hour later, by which time Tucker and I had made love again, and he’d been home to get fresh clothes. While he was gone, I did some repair work on myself. By the time we all gathered for the collection of the spilled chow mein, I looked fresh and virginal in a cotton sundress, with my hair tamed and caught up in a squeeze clip.

Crowley listened to both the voice-mail messages, took some notes and called the station to have both of them tapped by some Big Brother computer program. That done, he asked me about a hundred questions, and oversaw the removal of the toxic evidence.

While he was overseeing the process, his cell phone blipped. He answered with a crisp, “Crowley.” Listened intently. His gaze swung to me, landed and warmed. “Okay. Yeah. That’s good news for some people, and bad news for others. Thanks.”

He clicked the end button.

“Mr. Bad-Ass,” he said, “says you weren’t involved.”

I let out my breath, and my shoulders went limp with the release of tension. “That’s the good news?”

Crowley nodded. “The bad news is, he can’t remember what did happen. One minute, the place was full of customers and he was tending bar, as usual. The next, the crowd had thinned, and somebody stabbed him. After that, it’s the proverbial blur.”

I could identify.

Crowley’s gaze still contained a disturbing tinge of speculation. “Of course, I plan to question him myself.”

“Of course,” I agreed, wondering if I was still a person of interest after all.

The cop answered my unspoken question. He’d probably had a lot of experience, doing that. “Meanwhile, Ms. Sheepshanks, you’re free to go on about your business.”

Whatever that was, I thought.

“Thanks,” I said. “Did your contact happen to mention whether or not Bert could have visitors?”

“I’m thinking no,” Crowley answered. “Give it a few days.”

I nodded.

“If you remember anything else about the chow mein delivery, or if you happen to see the kid again someplace, be sure and let me know. Same thing if you hear from the mystery caller again.”

I’d told Crowley earlier that I suspected my half brother, Geoff, aka Steve Roberts, R.N. and health guru, might have been the perp. Ditto Heather, the stalker queen. I reminded him.

“I’d change the locks if I were you,” he said, “and don’t accept anything edible from strangers.”

Was he kidding? From then on, I wouldn’t take so much as a morsel from one of those sample ladies in the grocery store.

Crowley left, and Tucker and I went back to bed.

I woke to a dark apartment, an expanse of empty sheets and somebody hammering on the door.