In the cold, clear, dark night, a shot rang out.

In Manhattan, in the spacious master suite of Lillian Parker’s Park Avenue apartment, the telephone rang. She sat on the edge of her king-size bed and picked up the receiver. She was shaking, hoarse from tightening her throat, fighting the urge to cry.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Lil.”

“Crockett.”

“How are you, Lil?”

She tucked a leg under her. “Busy. The past few days have been really hectic.”

“You haven’t returned my calls.”

J. Land Crockett had been cluttering up her answering machines with messages to call him. He never left his name. He knew she’d recognize his voice. But she hadn’t called him back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re afraid, Lil.”

“No—”

“It’s all right. You’d be a fool if you weren’t. Have you talked to Ashley Wakefield yet?”

“No—I’ve tried. But she hasn’t returned any of my calls, either. I guess she’s busy, too. Crockett, maybe it’s just as well.”

He chuckled softly. “Have I ever changed my mind, Lil? I want to see this woman. I have to. I thought I’d laid the past to rest, but now I know I haven’t. Maybe I never will.”

Good Lord, she thought, had he actually believed he’d let go of the past? He lived in the past! He was a bitter old man, more dead than alive, and he let no one share his pain. He believed he was the only one in the world who had a right to suffer. But Lillian couldn’t criticize him. A long time ago, she had learned to deny her own pain, even to herself. No one could share her suffering because she let no one know it even existed.

“Don’t give me excuses, Lil,” Crockett went on gruffly. “Be afraid, but don’t let your fear stop you from doing what you have to do.”

“Crockett, for God’s sake. Why don’t you call Ashley yourself?”

“You know I can’t do that. But I have to see her, Lil. You know that, too.”

She rested back against the pillows. “I do know, Crockett,” she said in a near whisper. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

Ashley made the bank just before closing. Again asking her to dinner, the bank officer, George Chambers, led her to her safe-deposit box, which, with his key and hers, he opened. She removed the black velvet-bound cases, thanked him for the invitation, which unfortunately she couldn’t accept, and headed back to the lobby. He was really an attractive man: tawny haired, well dressed, intelligent and probably a great deal of fun. But he also knew all about Liechtenstein trusts and he obviously was fond of money.

Picky, picky. Well, she couldn’t help it. He wasn’t her type. Who is? Her traitorous mind conjured up an image of Jeremy Carruthers, his pale eyes crinkled as he squinted at the bright sun.

In the lobby, a muscular blond man in a too-tight T-shirt fell in behind her.

She remembered: “built like a bull, blond, a pro.”