“You know that’s what you’re doing. You’re scared.”

“This is not something we should discuss,” I said. “Especially when we’re having such a pleasant evening.”

She reached for her wine.

“It’s very good, by the way,” I said. “I like pinot noir because it’s light. Not heavy like a merlot. I’m not in the mood for anything heavy right now. So you made a good choice.”

She stabbed another bite of steak, getting my point.

“Tell me how things are going with Janet,” I went on. “Mostly doing white-collar crime in D.C.? Or is she getting to spend more time at ERF these days?”

Lucy stared out the window at the moon as she slowly swirled wine in her glass. “I should get started on your computer.”

While I cleaned up, she disappeared into my office. I did not disturb her for a very long time, if for no other reason than I knew she was put out with me. She wanted complete openness, and I had never been good at that, not with anyone. I felt bad, as if I had let down everyone I loved. For a while, I sat at the kitchen desk, talking to Marino on the phone, and I called to catch up with my mother. I put on a pot of decaffeinated coffee and carried two mugs down the hall.

Lucy was busy at my keyboard, glasses on, a slight frown furrowing her young, smooth brow as she concentrated. I set her coffee down and looked over her head at what she was typing. It made no sense to me. It never did.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

I could see my face reflected in the monitor as she struck the enter key again, executing another UNIX command.

“Good and not good,” she replied with an impatient sigh. “The problem with applications like AOL is you can’t track files unless you get into the original programming language. That’s where I am now. And it’s like following bread crumbs through a universe with more layers than an onion.”

I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “Lucy,” I said, “how did someone send these photographs to me? Can you tell me, step by step?”

She stopped what she was doing, slipping off her glasses and setting them on the desk. She rubbed her face in her hands and massaged her temples as if she had a headache.

“You got any Tylenol?” she asked.

“No acetaminophen with alcohol.” I opened a drawer and got out a bottle of Motrin instead.

“For starters,” she said, taking two, “this wouldn’t have been easy if your screen name wasn’t the same as your real one: KSCARPETTA.”

“I made it easy deliberately, for my colleagues to send me mail,” I explained one more time.

“You made it easy for anyone to send you mail.” She looked accusingly at me. “Have you gotten crank mail before?”

“I think this goes beyond crank mail.”

“Please answer my question.”

“A few things. Nothing to worry about.” I paused, then went on, “Generally after a lot of publicity because of some big case, a sensational trial, whatever.”