She shook her head emphatically. “Nothing. Not that I liked him.”

I grabbed her arm. “You swear to me you had nothing to do with what happened to Marie Prasquier on Grizzly Peak?”

She looked at me good and true. “Yes. Nothing.”

“Then listen,” I said, energized, “I think we can get you off the hook. No one has to know about Swing. There’s no proof you did anything wrong.” I figured I’d tell her later, in private, that what the Pan-Pacific Orchestra had taken with them was worthless, that despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been a traitor. If anyone ever learned what Gail had tried to do, I could always say she’d changed her mind and ordered me to make the chart meaningless. “Let’s think. Outside of writing Swing, what did you do wrong? You helped cover up a murder, but you weren’t an accomplice to one. Besides, you were protecting your own mother. If you turn state’s evidence, I’m sure we could make a deal on that. Is there anything else, honey? I have to know before I call the police.”

“Nothing else, Ray, I swear,” Gail vowed.

I thought, Damn, I just may have saved her.

For the first time, Martha looked like something other than her calmly confident self. “Gail, you’d condemn your parent to a certain death . . . ?”

Gail stood. “I’m doing the right thing, you’ll see.” Her face lit up. “You know, Ray, I think Russ had a list of my mother’s contacts locked up in his desk. Turning that over to the police might help my case, don’t you think?”

I told her I agreed. Keeping the gun trained on Martha, I went to call Bob Culpepper. For this arrest, I thought he wouldn’t mind being wakened.

“I think Russ kept the list here,” said Gail, crouching down to rummage through the lower left-hand drawer of the desk.

I picked up the phone, dialed Information and said, “Hello, I’d like to—Don’t do that, Gail.”

Her hand had been reaching for Gunther’s Luger. I couldn’t call the police. She was clearly not as innocent about this as I’d hoped. I replaced the receiver in its cradle and pointed my gun at her.

“I’m sorry, Ray,” she said, almost tenderly. Still kneeling at my side, she continued to move her hand slowly toward the pistol. I was lucky it was on top of Martha’s gun and strapped in its holster. It was not something she could pull from the drawer in one swift motion.

“Gail, move your hand away,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I have to get the gun,” she said, but her hand stayed where it was. She eyed me carefully.

“So you’re as bad as they are,” I said. If my heart hadn’t been broken so many ways a long time ago, it would have been broken now.