“Being in any way associated with me, at the moment, may be dangerous to your health. That’s why I didn’t call you after lunch.”

“Why, Stone, don’t tell me you’ve contracted a social disease.”

Dino broke in. “You’d better pay attention, Dierdre.”

“All right, be specific,” she said.

“A client of mine who had been hiding from a jealous boyfriend was killed last night.”

“The boyfriend was jealous of you?”

“Not just me, everybody. He’s nuts. His name is Devlin Daltry.”

“The sculptor?”

“Jesus, why is it that everybody knows about this guy, and I’d never heard of him until a couple of weeks ago?”

“He’s a very well-known artist,” Dierdre said.

“I am the son of two well-known artists,” Stone said, “and I have more than a passing interest in the arts, but somehow Devlin Daltry had escaped my notice until he started trying to kill me.”

“I thought it was your client he killed.”

“It was, but he ran me down with a car on Third Avenue last week. My body has many bruises, and this…” He held up his left hand to display the blue plastic cast. “…is a result of that incident.”

“My goodness, that’s a cast? And I thought it was a sex toy!”

“My point is, Dierdre, that this guy has been known to follow me around, and if he spots us together, you may very well be in danger.”

“I can handle myself,” Dierdre said.

“Are you packing?”

“Always. How did he kill your client?”

“After cutting the throat of the woman she was staying with in New Jersey, he decapitated my client. And she was the kind of woman who could take care of herself, too. She was six feet, three inches tall and no shrinking violet.”

“Was she packing?”

“She was. I loaned her one of my own weapons.”

Dierdre regarded him calmly. “I’d rather it were a social disease than a crazed killer,” she said, “but if he messes with me, I’ll shoot him, and as soon as I’m sure he’s dead, I’ll arrest him and prosecute him. Are the police looking for him?”

“They found him shortly after the killing at an art gallery opening in SoHo; witnesses put him there when the killing took place.”

“So he hired somebody?”

“Apparently.”

Dino spoke up. “It’s gotta be tough to hire somebody to cut off the head of a six-foot, three-inch woman with a gun.”

“Yeah, and a doctor on the scene said that the killer did it in a fit of rage,” Stone pointed out. “Professional killers don’t do rage.”

“Now that you mention it,” Dierdre said, “I’ve never heard of rage in the case of a pro who was prosecuted. Those guys just walk up to you, put two in your head and walk away. Cold is their trademark.”