The third message was from Vinnie. “What are you doing at home listening to this dumb machine? Why aren’t you out looking for Singh? I’m dying here, for crissake. Do something!”

And my mother again. “I didn’t want anything the first time. You don’t have to call me back.”

I erased the messages and dropped a tiny piece of pizza into Rex’s cage. Rex is my hamster roommate. He lives in a glass aquarium in my kitchen and sleeps in a Campbell’s tomato soup can. Rex rushed out of his soup can, shoved the pizza into his cheek pouch, and scurried back to the can. Quality pet time.

I carted the pizza box, the beer, and my purse into the living room, flopped onto the couch, powered up the television, and found a Seinfeld rerun. A couple months ago I entered the computer age and bought myself an Apple iBook. I keep the iBook on my coffee table so I can check my mail and watch television at the same time. Am I a multitasker, or what?

I opened the iBook and signed on. I deleted the junk mail advertising Viagra, mortgage rates, and porn sites. A single message was left. It was from Andrew Cone. If I can be of any further help, don’t hesitate to call.

THE PHONE JARRED me awake at 7:00 A.M.

“Something just came across my desk that I thought you might want to see,” Morelli said. “I’m at the station and I have a few things to do and then I’ll come over.”

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I did the shower thing and the hair thing and a half-assed job at the makeup thing. I got dressed in my usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans and felt ready to face the day. I made coffee and treated myself to a strawberry Pop Tart, feeling righteous because I’d resisted the S’mores Pop Tart. Best to have fruit for breakfast, right? I gave a corner of the Pop Tart to Rex and sipped my coffee.

I was pouring myself a second cup of coffee when Morelli arrived. He backed me against a wall, made certain there were no spaces between us, and he kissed me. His pager buzzed and he did some inventive cussing.

“Trouble?” I asked.

He looked at the display. “The usual crap.” He stepped back and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “I knew there was some sort of mess associated with TriBro, so I ran a search for you. It turned up this newspaper article from two years ago.”

I took the paper from Morelli and read the headline. “Bart Cone Charged in Paressi Slaying.” The article went on to say that hikers had stumbled over the body of Lillian Paressi just hours after Paressi had been killed with a single shot to the head at close range. The murder had occurred in a wooded area just north of Washington’s Crossing State Park. Cone had been spotted leaving the scene and police claimed to have physical evidence linking Cone to the murder.